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9 








ANNA CLAYTON; 



;THE MOTHER’S TRIAL 


. % fs( %nl TiU, 

I 

rv % , 



y; 


BY MRS, H. J. MOORE, v 

AUTHOR OF THE Q OLDEN LEGACY, 


“ Through sufferiug and sorrow thou hast passed, 
To show us what a woman true may he.” 


Ninth edition.' 

I 

j 

^ BOlSTON: 

■ CROWN & CO. 



TORONTO, 0. W.; A. W. BOSTWIOK. 
'PHILADELPHIA : J. W BRADLEY. 
PROVIDENCE: 0. W. POTTER. 


■PZs ■ 

0 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 
L.P. CROWN & CO., 

In tlie Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachi^eetta. 




cm 

\ * 

Mrs. Ada SpinKt 

Aug. 16 ItSA 


Stereotyped by 
HOBART & ROBBINS, 

Hew England Type and Stereotype Eoundery, 


PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 


The unexpected favor with which “ Anna Clayton ” has been 
received by the public, requiring another and larger edition within 
a few hours from its first appearance, shows that Life ” 

has not yet lost its charms, amidst the wild vagaries of fiction and 
romance. 

The principal characters and scenes in this tale ” are drawn 
from life. Imagination cannot picture deeper shades of sadness, 
higher or more exquisite joys, stranger labyrinthine mazes, than 
truth has woven for us in “ The Mother’s Trial.” 

Here, in the heart of New England, lived, and, for aught we 
know, still live, our prototypes. The same blighting influences 
are even now insidiously creeping around our firesides ; and, while 
we disclaim either bitterness or prejudice toward those who are 
blindly led, we would raise the finger of warning against the lead- 
ers in this “ Mystery of Iniquity.” 

Boston, May 7, 1855. 




ANNA CLAYTON 


CHAPTEE I. 

If there be a human tear ’ 

From passion’s dross refined and clear, 

’T is that by loving father shed 
Upon a duteous daughter’s head.” 

Scott’s “ Lady op the Lake.” 

Before a cheerful, crackling fire (for those were not the 
days of Lehigh), in the family-room of an old mansion, sat, 
or rather leaned, one whose silvery locks and careworn feat- 
ures denoted that he had fulfilled the “ three-score years and 
ten ” allotted to man. Long and vacantly he gazed, but not 
at the gracefiilly-curling smoke that wreathed itself into fan- 
tastic forms, and ascended to mingle with the pure air of 
heaven, leaving a long train to follow at leisure ; nor at the 
glowing embers beneath, bright and genial though their influ- 
ence might be ; — no, the gaze of the old man bent not upon 
any outward object ; his communings were deep within the 
spirit’s shrine, and there, spread before his mental vision in 
almost startling reality, were the various scenes through 
which he had passed ; the many years he had ministered in 
1 "* 


G 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


epirifual things to the flock that now seemed so dear to him ; 
the loved ones he had laid to rest in the green church- 
yard ; the blessings that had been showered upon him in the 
midst of griefs. Brightest of all these blessings, stole softly 
and sweetly the image of one who, for nineteen years, had 
been enshrined within his heart, — worshipped, next only to 
his God ; whose first breath came freighted with the parting 
blessing of a sainted mother, and to whom, with his bound- 
less wealth of love and tender care, ever pouring its exhaust- 
less treasures at her feet, he had been father, mother, compan- 
ton ! Now his head leaned more heavily upon his breast, 
and gentle, sorrowful tears were coursing down his furrowed 
cheek, when a merry, joyous, silvery laugh rang through the 
room, as, with a light bound, a fair girl sprang into his arms. 

“ A penny for your thoughts, my dear father ! ” said she, 
gayly ; “ here you sit, moping over the fire, just where I left 
you nearly an hour ago, while I have been to see Aunt 
Susie, and poor Mrs. Bowley, who is so sick, and black Cato, 
and sweet, patient Ellen Leslie, and ” — but here the tearful 
eyes which met her own checked her utterance ; and, impul- 
sively clasping her arms about his neck, her fair ringlets 
mingling with his snowy locks, her tears ftll with almost 
childish exuberance. 

“My child!— my darling, this must not be! — why 
should I grieve you? ” — and, with a mighty effort stilling the 
throbs of his own swelling heart, he exclaimed, in attempted 
cheerfulness, “ Why, what would Herbert say, should he see 
his Bessie, the prize for which he has so long and so honorably 
striven, and which he thought was to be conferred upon him 
with deep thanktulness that the winner was worthy of that 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


7 


which he had so earnestly sought, — how would he feel should 
he see her now in tears, on the very eve of that consummation 
which she often assured him would only perfect her happi- 
ness ! Nay, nay, do not speak now ; I know all your heart 
would dictate; I know you would give up even Herbert, 
dear as he is to you, rather than cause your old father’s heart 
to bleed, as you just now felt that it did. Bless you, darling, 
for that devotion, and may God bless you,” — and here the 
trembling hands and lips were raised to heaven, — “ as I now 
do, for all the light, life and joy, with which you have filled 
this otherwise desolate heart ! Such a treasure as you have 
been to me, may you prove to him who has your pure young 
heart in his keeping' ! ” 

“ But, father, listen to me ; ” and, as she spoke, her whole 
frame quivering with emotion, her slight figure drawn up 
with unwonted decision, she seemed to shadow forth that 
blending of rare loveliness and gentleness with an unwavering 
obedience to the right which were so fully perfej^d in her 
after life; — “listen, and believe me when I say that, 
deeply and truly as I love Herbert, — and how deeply and 
truly none save my own soul can know, — there is yet a 
shrine in my heart which not even his love can approach, 

where only is the image of one who has been to me 

father, mother, brother, sister ; and can I see the shadow of 
such great grief falling upon my revered father’s heart, and 
not declare, as I now do, that — ” 

“ Stay that declaration, my dear child, if you would not 
distress me still more ! There is a shadow falling on my 
heart, but ’t is the shadow of an angel, beckoning me on to joys 
untasted, to glories unseen, to sweet communings with her 


8 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


who has long been waiting in the spirit-land ; and the last 
wish of my heart will be gratified, as I to-morrow give to 
Herbert the greatest boon this earth afibrds, — a cheerful, 
loving, truthfiil wife.” 

“ Plase yer honor, Misther May, an’ shure there ’s a letther 
for yees, and the man will be afther waiting for an answer,” 
said Bridget, thrusting her head in at the door ; “ but, bedad, 
yees all in the dark, shure.” 

Before she had done speaking, Bessie, with noiseless step, 
had lighted the social astral, and drawn her father’s chair 
near the table, where she stood, impatiently waiting for him 
to adjust his glasses, take a deliberate survey of the outside, 
and then as deliberately unfold the letter, which to her quick 
and unerring instinct was in some way connected with him 
who on the morrow would lead her to the altar. 

“ Bessie, dear,” said Mr. May, looking up with a quiet 
smile, as he handed her the missive, “ here is an ordeal for 
you to pa^ which, if I mistake not, will be rather trying to 
one so sensitive and delicate. What say you, — for it is a 
matter you alone must decide, — shall the good people of 
Asheville satisfy their curiosity by looking at the sweet face 
of their minister’s wife as she first takes upon herself those 
vows ; or, as they express it, ‘ show their respect for their 
beloved pastor, the Bev. Herbert Lindsey, by escorting him 
and his bride to their future home ’ ? ’T will be a trial, love, 
but a small one, I fear, compared with many which must fol- 
low, and from which a father’s love would fain shield you, but 
cannot. Speak, darling, and tell me what answer to give to 
this request.” 

“What would Herbert say, father?” gently replied she, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


9 


while a shade of anxiety and disappointment passed over her 
face. 

“ Spoken like my own Bessie, ever mindful of the wishes 
of those she loves, and ever ready to make any sacrifice for 
them. Doubtless he would like to gratify his people, but 
not if it must wound the feelings of his gentle bride.” 

“ Then, father,” said ^he, with an arch smile, tell them 
Mr. May and his daughter, grateful for their condescension, 
will be most happy to receive them.” 

And so it was settled that in the church where her loved 
voice had first lisped the Saviour’s name, and had since min- 
gled its sweetness in their simple, heart-felt melodies, that 
voice should once more be heard, uttering the vows which 
severed her from her childhood’s home forever. 


CHAPTER^II. 

“ 0, hush the song, and let her tears 
Flow to the dream of her early years : 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father’s hall ; 

She goes unto love yet untried and new — 

She parts from love which hath still been true.” 

Mrs. Hemans. 

Brightly the morning sun shone over the village of B , 

and sweetly the birds sang, — never more sweetly, thought 
Bessie, as she, at early dawn, with step light, yet pensive, 
thought sweet, yet sad, sought her own little nook in the gar- 
den. Sacred be thy communings, sweet maiden ! we will not 
venture within this consecrated spot, but breathe for thee the 
prayer that thou mayest come forth strengthened for all thy 
life’s trials ; and above all for the great sorrow that even now 
is hovering over thee, and though on thy happy bridal-day, 
cannot be averted from thee. 

“ 0; Nancy, Miss Nancy, do help me put on this white 
dress!” said Nelly Lee, bursting into Miss Nancy Ellis’ room, 
to her utter dismay and confusion, as the secrets of her toilet 
were thus suddenly exposed to the rude gaze of the mischiev- 
ous girl, — “ I took it out of my drawer this morning, where I 
laid it last fall, and Kitty has ironed it so nice and now I 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


^ 11 


ean’t get it on ; and ’tis so vexing, too, for all of us girls 
want to dress just alike, and carry flowers to strew in the 
aisle for the bride to walk on ; and they are gathering them 
now, and , I ’m afraid I shall be late ; do help me, that ’s a 
dear, good Miss Nancy ! ” said the now breathless girl, coax- 
ingly throwing her arms about her. 

“ I ’m sure I don’t know why there should be such a fuss, 
just because Miss Bessie May has taken it into her head to 
gbt married ! ” said Nancy, tartly ; « and then, too, to think 
of her boldness in going to the church, — just as if she was 
afraid there would n’t be folks enough to see her at home ! I 
admire modesty,” said she, complacently viewing her hard 
features in the glass ; _ “ but come here, child, and I ’ll help 
you ; ” and, with much straining, pulling, and a little rending, 
— for, unconsciously to herself, little Nelly’s form was fast 
rounding and developing to its perfection, — the dress was 
made to stay on — fit it certainly did not. But Nelly still 
lingered, though she was just now in such haste, and, looking 
sadly at Miss Nancy, 

“ I did n’t know,” said she, “ that you hated our dear Bes- 
sie ; I thought everybody loved her.” 

“ Well, well, child, you are too young to understand these 
things ; ” and, having no older listener, she continued, partly 
to her and partly to herself, — “ to think that she should drag 
her old father out Just to make a display of herself, when, I 
venture to say, he would prefer a quiet time at home ! ” 

“ That an’t true ! ’’—and Nelly stamped her little foot vio- 
lently, — “ for Bridget, who lives at Mr. May’s, was over to 
our house last night, and said that a man brought a letter, 
and she carried it to Mr. May, and he was so busy-like that 




12 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


* 

he didn’t know she was in the room, and ’twas all about her 
young mistress being married in church; and Bessie cried 
about it, but said she would do as her father bid ; so, Miss 
Nancy,” — and the little face was full of triumph, — “what 
do you think now ? ” 

“ Think, — why, I think just as I always did, that she ’s 
a little upstart, and an’t no better ’n she ought to be, neither; 
and I shall just give some o’ them folks that come from his 
place a piece of my mind about it, too ! ” 

This was rather too much for Nelly ; and, her bosom heav- 
ing with indignation and wrath, she seized a saucer of paint 
and a long row of pearly-white teeth that lay upon the table, 
and, dashing them into a thousand pieces upon the floor, she 
exclaimed, “ And I shall tell them. Miss Nancy, that you 
could n’t come to the wedding because a little girl threw your 
teeth on the floor and broke them, and spilt all your paint ! ” 
and peal after peal of merry laughter rang through the house 
as she escaped Miss Nancy’s indignation, the thought of her 
woful plight disarming all her childish anger. 

Poor Miss Nancy ! her wrath knew no bounds. How could 
she now carry out her plan of visiting this, that and the other 
one, and dififusing a little of her bitterness of spirit among 
them all ? And the wedding, too, where she had expected to 
shine so conspicuously in a certain way, — what can she do? 
And to think of that little mischievous madcap being the 
cause of it all ! “ 0, what torments children are ! ” said she, 

as, quickly fastening the door, she buried her face in her 
hands, and gave way to a violent fit of weeping. Who shall 
say they were not, to her ? 

Never before was there heard such a peal as now burst 


ANNA OLAYTON. 


13 


forth from the church-bell. Can that be old John the sex- 
ton? If so, he must certainly be inspired; for so plainly do 
its deep tones speak to every heart, that, at its bidding, old 
and young, rich and poor, all bend their steps towards its 
open portals. And now the village-green seems peopled with 
fairies, as from behind every bush, from every nook and cor- 
ner, there springs forth what would seem to be a wilderness 
of flowers, were it not that here and there a roguish eye would 
peep from under a bunch of roses, or a stray curl or dimpled 
arm proclaim some humanity in that moving garden. 

The little church had been transformed by these fairies into 
a perfect bower of roses and evergreens ; and, as they stood 
with joyous faces and beaming eyes, showering with fragrance 
the pathway 4;o the altar, what wonder that the venerable 
man should pause to call down blessings on their young 
hearts ; or that the tall, manly form, which supported the 
trembling bride, bowed in grateful acknowledgment of this 
simple, characteristic offering of innocence ! 

Long would we linger around that altar ; for, in the deep, 
tremulous voice of him who resigns his last, cherished treasure 
to another’s keeping, are tones not of earth, and the melody 
which wells forth from every heart in the bridal chorus is 
swelled by the sweeter strains of an angel band. She, who 
has so long hovered around the loved ones with gentle, heav- 
enly ministrations, is even now permitted to breathe words of 
peace and joy into the lone man’s soul, and, with spotless robe 
and crown in view, to beckon him away to his treasures in 
heaven. As with outstretched arms and streaming eyes the 
father and pastor invokes God’s blessing upon his flock, an 
invisible presence seems to fill every heart ; even the little 
2 


14 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


ones look upon him with awe, and pass him with unwonted 
reverence. Amid smiles and tears, congratulations and mur- 
murings, blessings from the old and good wishes from all, the 
gentle, blushing bride was proudly led forth by the now happy 
husband. Many a kindly word was spoken, many a token 
of affection pressed into her hand, ere she was permitted to 
depart to the home and people which were henceforth to be 
hers. 

“ 0, how we shall miss her ! ” sobbed Miss Nancy Ellis, as, 
with her colorless face bound in cotton, she stretched forth 
her long neck to gaze after the departing carriages. 

“Why, Miss Nancy,” said little Nelly, who had been stand- 
ing unobserved near her, “ why, how can you say so ? ” and, 
turning away in disgust, she gathered a little group about her, 
and in a low voice, interrupted with constant bursts of merri- 
ment or indignation, she told the mishaps of the morning, as 
with frequent and meaning gestures she pointed to the face 
covered up for pretended ague. It was well for Nelly that 
she deferred her story till now ; for, so dangerous was their 
glee, — none the less boisterous for the woful aspect of Miss 
Nancy before them, — that many an outgrown dress, beside 
hers, bore testimony to its effect. 


CHAPTEB III. 


“ What a world were this. 

How unendurable its weight, if they 

Whom death hath sundered did not meet again ! ** 

Southey. 

The churcli, just left vacant and lonely by the departure 
of the bridal party, and within which still lingered sweet 
influences of visible and invisible spirits, — the unwithered 
and blending fragrance of flowers betraying the nearness of 
the former, and the hush and thrill of spirit ever attending 
the overshadowing presence of the latter, — was one of those 
venerable structures so often met with in New England till 
the hand of improvement, or, as we should rather say, of 
change, swept them from the earth, but not from the cherished 
remembrance of many who worshipped within their ancient 
walls. How well do we remember the veneration and awe 
with which we (child as we were) gazed up into the enclosure 
midway, we thought, between heaven and earth, as though 
not of either, where stood the inspired man of God in flowing 
robes ; how often have we likened it, in our youthful imagin- 
ation, to the scenes of the judgment day, when he who was to 
pronounce the doom of all should occupy that sacred desk, 
while Abraham, and Isa^c, and Jacob, with other glorified 


16 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


beings whose seats in heaven were already secured, should sit 
in solemn state where sat those six deacons, with faces as 
devout and serious as though the fate of worlds rested upon 
them ! And then those stately square pews, with innumerable 
little alleys as pathways to them, — how expressive of the 
gathering together of each family in its exclusively social 
relations before the final separation ! I confess my youthful 
fancies have often led me through many such imaginary scenes 
of weal and woe, while my honest, sober-minded parents were 
congratulating themselves that one, at least, of their number, 
was an attentive listener to the holy man’s words. 

The ministerial office of those days was far from being the 
“ come and go ” affair of the present age. Then it was 
choosing a home for life, and on both sides was the union one 
which only death should* dissolve. Consequently the settle- 
ment of a minister was an era long to be remembered, and 
seldom witnessed more than once by the same generation. 

This was true of the good people of B ; for only a few 

among the aged could recall the time when Mr. May came 
among them, in all his youthful ardor, and, after a mutually 
agreeable acquaintance, was ordained as their future spiritual 
teacher, amid the gaze of multitudes from far and near. The 
mingled love and reverence with which they still regarded 
him testified alike to his. faithful fulfilment of those solemn 
rows, and to their docility and love of all things good. They 
had borne his sorrows on their hearts when he laid his dearly- 
loved wife in their green church-yard ; and they had watched 
with joy the gradually unfolding and developing beauties of 
his bud of promise, the lovely Bessie. What wonder, then, 
that the transplanting of this flower to another garden should 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


17 


have been a great event in their history, or that the day 
chosen for her nuptials should, by common consent, have been 
enjoyed as a holiday for all ? 

As the bridal cortege wound slowly from their sight, groups 
of men, women and children, were eagerly discussing the many 
incidents always attendant upon a country wedding, while 
here and there were busy housewives, intent on their prepara- 
tions for a “ bit o’ gossip and a cup o’ tea ” with their neigh- 
bors. Thus the day wore on to its close, when, as if by 
preconcertion, there was a general gathering on the village 
green, partly to discuss the exhaustless subject of the morning’s 
occurrence, and also to mingle their sympathies with their 
beloved pastor, who, they doubted not, would come forth to 
meet them, and whose house was now indeed made desolate. 
Expectant eyes were often turned towards the “ parsonage,” 
but none appeared in answer to their silent call, till at length 
the porch door opened, and Bridget, the faithful servant, 
came slowly towards them, to see if her master had been well 
cared for. Great was her consternation when informed that 
he had not been seen by any one since the services of the 
morning. 

“Alack a day, and isn’t it meself as feared what’s 
coming ! ” cried she ; “ and shure is n’t it me own eyes as saw 
him go to the grave of his leddy, yonder, last night aboot 
twelve! and wasn’t I a trimblin’ and shiverin’ when I see 
him doun on his knees, an’ the grass all damp and cowld at his 
feet ! And, the blissid Virgin save me ! jist as I stipt out to 
warn him, may be did n’t I see the leddy herself risin’ out 
o’ the ground and kneelin’ beside him ! Och ! an’ is n’t a 
beryin, it betokens, sich as the likes o’ me would niver see 
2 * 


18 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


agin ? ” And, wringing her hands, poor Biddy seemed besi(fe 
herself with grief and fright. How much influence her story 
evidently a mixture of truth and imagination, had with her 
hearers, could scarcely be estimated ; but of one thing they 
were assured, which sufficiently alarmed them, without refer- 
ence to the supernatural, — their pastor had not been seen 
by any one since his morning’s trial. Old John the sexton 
now remembered that when Mr. May parted with the bride 
at the carriage he went back into the church and shut the 
door ; but, as he thought, he did it that he might gain his own 
house by a more private way. After a moment’s consultation, 
a few of the older ones approached the church, and, noiselessly 
unclosing the door, gazed with speechless reverence upon the 
scene before them. Seated upon the same spot where he had 
given away his last treasure, the long, whitened locks flowing 
upon his shoulders, his head resting upon the desk in front, so 
absorbed, apparently, in deep revery that he had taken no 
note of the advancing shades of evening, the old man had 
passed his first solitary day. Was he not surrounded by 
ministering spirits, all eager to pour the balm of consolation 
into his heart ? So, at least, thought those who gazed, as, 
silently withdrawing, they joined their neighbors ; and, impart- 
ing their own deep sympathy, all quietly sought their homes, 
save a few of the faithful who remained to watch the coming 
forth of their beloved pastor. 

The trial of parting with his only child, even though the 
separation was but partial, had proved far greater and more 
unendurable than Bessie’s father had ever anticipated. Hastily 
turning from the carriage as it moved away, that his emotion 
might not be observed, he sought the solitude of his own loved 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


19 


sanctuary, and instinctively bent his steps to the altar where, 
but a fe\i short moments since, he had consummated a union 
which his judgment approved, but which sundered a tie whoso 
strength he had never before so fully realized. And now, 
with head bent in deep communings with his/own spirit in its 
great grief, did the soft, sweet whisper of the angel of hope 
pervade his soul. Tremblingly did th^ long- tried servant 
listen to its words, as they gently breathed to him of heaven, 
and home, and rest. The outward man moved not, stirred 
not, breathed not ! but from the shrine of his inner self did 
there go up joyful thanksgiving and praise, and with his 
spiritual eyes did he discern hosts of enraptured beings, in 
spotless robes and crowns of glory, awaiting his coming, while 
she who had ever been his guardian angel, with one hand 
clasped in his and the other pointing to the golden gates, 
gently drew him on, and together they winged their way to 
the celestial paradise. 

Can it be that these seeming realities are but the fanta- 
sies of a troubled mind ? or have his long years of devotion 
and self-sacrifice been at length rewarded by the welcome 
invitation — “ Come, ye blessed,” — so sweetly given and so 
^joyfully met as to seem but a glorious dream ? The sobs, 
tears, and heart-felt exclamations, of those who, many hours 
after, found him still in the same position, but stiflf and cold 
in death, proclaimed that this vision was but the happy exit 
of a redeemed soul from earth. 

Again do the deep tones of the church-bell reverberate 
through hill and dale, but with each solemn toll do the hearts 
of this bereaved flock sink deeper and deeper, for well they 
recognize the mournful call to go forth and consign their 


20 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


beloved pastor to his last long rest beside the mound he has 
80 often watered with his tears, where sleeps the bride of his 
youth. Scarcely less deep is thdr grief than that which 
wrings Iwr heart, who but three days since received in pater- 
nal blessings his last words on earth. 

As the grave closes over that loved form, which, for many 
years, has moved %mong them in all godliness and humility, 
and within which throbbed a heart ever keenly alive to their 
varying interests, every bleeding, sorrowing heart pays its 
tribute alike to his worth and their own irreparable loss. 
Sleep on, thou chosen of the Lord ! For thee shall no monu- 
mental stone be reared, to tell of thy greatness; but in the 
simple marble slab do we read the devotion of thy life to its 
great end, and the place of thy repose is indeed holy ground. 


CHAPTEE IV. 


** Lay this into your breast : 

Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.” 

Webster. 

** Our first love murdered is the sharpest pang 
A human heart can feel.” 

Youwa. 

From the grave of her revered father, every fibre of her 
quivering heart rent with agony as it was thus severed from 
its long resting-place, Bessie went forth, with him who was 
now her only earthly treasure, to the home he had chosen for 
her. Deeply imbibing the childlike, submissive spirit, ever 
shining so brightly in him who was now reaping its reward, 
and feeling that henceforth his spirit would be suffered to 
watch over her, she did not permit her selfish sorrow to darken 
the path before her. Gratefully she received the quiet mani- 
festations of sympathy from those to whom she was now to be 
so closely bound; and with deep, fervent thankfulness did 
she bless her heavenly Father, who had thus kindly opened 
the hearts of her husband’s flock to receive the orphan bride. 
Nor did the unsurpassed beauties of nature, of which Asheville 
could so justly boast, lose their effect in softening the shad- 
ows resting on her heart. The wide-spreading elms which 


22 


ANNA CLAYTON, 


sheltered her new home, and which, as far as the eje could 
reach; lined on either side the village road ; the bright, spark- 
ling river, coursing its way through the green fields, and 
merging itself, not far distant, into the broad Atlantic ; the 
diversified scenery of hill and dale, woodland and plain, dotted 
here and there with the pleasant homes of their people, could 
scarcely fail to charm away sorrow from one even less enthu- 
siastic than Bessie. 

Released, in a measure, from home duties, by the faithful- 
ness of her old nurse Bridget, she would wander forth at early 
dawn, and, inhaling new life with each passing breeze, seek 
some quiet nook where she could in his silent temple worship 
the God of nature. Thus was her spirit strengthened for 
life’s trials, and her heart filled with a peace reflecting itself 
in the kind words and loving smiles with which she sought to 
cheer her husband’s home. 

A few short months, which to her seemed but as so many 
happy days, were thus passed, when, as she was returning, one 
morning, from her accustomed ramble, she was accosted by a 
servant-girl with a beautiful child in her arms. 

“ Will you please, madam, to show me the way out of 
these woods? I have lost the right path, and my mistress will 
be anxious about the baby, if I am out any longer.” 

“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Lindsey; “but where do you 
wish to go, and whose is this darling treasure ? ” And she 
stooped to admire and caress it. 

“ I want to go to Squire Clayton’s ; this is his grandson, 
and if any harm should befall him ’t would break the old man’s 
heart ; he s ts a sight o’ store by him.” 

“Clayton! Clayton!” repeated Mrs. Lindsey; “how 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


23 


familiar that name sounds ! I wonder if he is any connection 
of my old schoolmate, Anna. What is your mistress name, 
Susan ? for the baby has told me yours ! ” said she, smiling. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” replied she, “ he said ‘ Susy ’ the next thing 
after he learnt ‘ mamma.’ Dear little Charlie — I love him 
so dearly ! His mother’s name is Mrs. Duncan ; she is feeble, 
and don’t go about much ; but then she bears everything so 
patiently and sweetly — I think sometimes she an’t long for 
this world. But I am talking too much,” said she, coloring ; 
“ I always forget myself when talking about her, and you 
seem so like her that I forgot you was a stranger ; I can find 
my way now, thanks to you for showing me. Come, Charlie, 
make a bow to the lady, and say good-by.” 

“ I will walk along with you,” said Mrs. Lindsey, laughing 
heartily at the little “ dude-by,” and bob of the head. “ I am 
going to ask your mistress to let you bring the baby to my 
house ; I want my husband to see the sweet little fellow.” 

“ I ’m afraid she won’t,” replied Susan, much embarrassed, 
“ for she don’t see company, and Charlie is all the comfort 
she ’s got. But there she is, walking in the garden and look- 
ing for us,” continued she, her agitation evidently increasing 
as they approached Squire Clayton’s mansion. 

“ Never fear your mistress’ disapprobation,” said Mrs. 
Lindsey, reading her look ; “ I shall take care to exculpate 
you from any intention of inviting me here, and will not 
intrude upon.her if I find it disagreeable.” 

“ I certainly owe you many apologies for this intrusion,” 
said Mrs. Lindsey, addressing Mrs. Duncan, who came for- 
ward to meet them, “ and should not thus trespass upon your 
retirement but for that little fellow,” pointing to the baby, 


24 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


now shouting with delight in his mother’s arms. “ I accident- 
ally met him and his nurse in the wood yonder, and at her 
request, as she was somewhat bewildered, I guided them out ; 
the sweet smiles and winning words of little Charlie, as she 
called him, charming me on to your quiet retreat, to claim 
from you a promise that to-morrow I may be allowed a visit 
from him. But,” continued she, gazing intently into the 
lovely face of Mrs. Duncan, “ you so strongly remind me of a 
dear cherished friend who has now gone abroad, that I could 
almost ” 

“Bessie, Bessie May! can it be?” cried Mrs. Duncan, 
looking up eagerly, and clasping her arms about her. “ O, 
how I have longed to see you, dear, dear Be^ie ! ” and she 
drew her to a seat in the arbor. 

“ But, Anna, dearest, since it is you, why did you not 
write to me when you returned 'from abroad? You know 
you promised, and so did Robert, that I should be the first to 
welcome you home.” 

“ 0, Bessie, have you yet to learn that I am not Robert 
Graham’s wife, and that he is wandering alone in a foreign 
land ? ” replied Anna, in tones of anguish. 

“ I do remember, now, that Susan told me your name was 
Mrs. Duncan,” said Bessie ; “ but the surprise and joy of 
this unexpected meeting had driven it all out of my head. 
Pray, what does it mean, Anna ? for in your pale, sad face 
I read such suffering as I little thought would fall to the lot 
of the ever-joyous and lively Anna Clayton. Surely, Robert 
did not prove false ! ” 

“ Robert — never ! You know, Bessie, when we were such 
dear good friends at school, I told you how long Robert and 




ANNA CLAYTON. 


25 


I had known and loved each other, and that as soon as he 
got the appointment abroad which he expected, we should 
together find our home in a distant land. I well remember 
your query — * Are you sure, Anna, that your father will 
consent ? ’ — and at the moment it troubled me ; but Robert 
assured me that he knew of his expected appointment, and 
that a man of honor, like Squire Clayton, would never refuse 
his consent to our union, w^hen he had so long witnessed, with- 
out discouraging, our increasing attachment. Thus reassured, 
I did not suffer any further doubts to cloud our happiness ; 
but returned home, as you know, full of buoyant anticipations. 
But, dear Bessie, I forget upon what a long and sad story I 
have entered ; and so selfishly absorbed have I been in my own 
troubles that I have, nqt^ even inquired by what conjuration 
s you, whom of all othersT have most longed to see, have been 
: brought to my side.” 

“ I told you just now,” replied Bessie, *smiling, “ that it 
: was by the witchery of your Cly^ie’s smiles I was drawn to 
your door, little thinking, however, that in his mother I should 
find my dearly-loved and long-cherished schoolmate. But I 
' shall not tell you one word about myself, for I am impatient 
to hear the rest of your ‘ sad story.’ Bear Anna, if you 
were in trouble, why did you not write and let me come and 
comfort you ? ” 

“You will know why, dear Bessie,” replied she, “ when I have 
told you all ; but the joy of meeting you, and the very thought 
that I can, without reserve, open to you my hitherto sealed 
heart, sure of receiving sympathy and kind words, almost 
overpowers me,” — and tears came to her relief, as she leaned 
3 


26 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


her head upon her friend’s shoulder, and, in broken sentences, 
continued — 

“The kind and loving reception which I met from my 
parents on my return from school, and the ease and freedom 
with which Kobert was domesticated in our social circle, as 
though already one of us, served but to brighten our hopes 
for the future. Judge, then, of my consternation, when one 
morning, as I sat in the library, with book in hand, but with 
thoughts busily weaving such scenes of bliss as, alas ! can 
never exist save in imagination, my father came in, and", 
affectionately patting my cheek, said he was glad to find me 
there, as he had just parted with a dear friend, and was the 
bearer of a message for me which he was too happy to deliver. 
This was none othei than an offer of his heart and hand from 
the noble -born and aristocratic Charles Duncan. ‘ Now, my 
daughter,’ said he, exultingly, as he concluded, ‘ I shall live j 
to see my fondest hopes concerning you more than realized, j 
Charles Duncan’s father is an English nobleman, and he will i 
eventually succeed to his father’s titles and estates.’ 

“ ‘ But, father,’ said I, in tones more of despair than joy at 
such an announcement, ‘do you not know that this same 
Charles is a reckless, dissipated fellow, and that he is well 
aware of our knowledge of his character? Besides, the lim- 
ited acquaintance we have had with him has only served to 
expose the shallowness of his brain, as well as the baseness of ’ 
his heart. I should consider proposals from sucb a man an 
insult to any pure-minded, virtuous girl.’ 

“ ‘ My child, you amaze me ! ’ replied my father ; ‘ the 
attentions you have shown him as our guest led me to sup- 
pose that you, at least, respected him. These little follies, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


27 


SO common to young men of his station, he will soon get 
over.* 

“ ‘ It was only as your guest, father, that I have endeavored 
to show him some respect ; for, from the first, I have felt 
a strange repugnance to him. I cannot marry him, dear 
father ! * 

“ My father sat some moments in silence, his head resting 
upon both hands, his countenance expressive of great disap- 
pointment, while I, almost stupefied by an undefinable pre- 
sentiment of coming evil, sank upon my knees at his feet, 
exclaiming, ‘ Surely, father, you do not wish me to marry 
one who not only unblushingly boasts of his villany in betray- 
ing confiding innocence, but is also an avowed enemy of the 
religion in which we were nurtured.’ 

“ ‘ Tut, tut, child ! ’ replied he, hastily, ‘ what do you know 
about religion ? Mr. Duncan told me, to-day, that, although 
he is a Catholic, he should never interfere with his wife’s re- 
ligious affairs ; and as to his boasting, as you say, I think you 
have been misinformed. So, come, dry your tears, and pre- 
pare to look your best, for he is to dine with us to-day, and 
desires a “ tete-a-tete ” with you afterwards.’ 

“ ‘ Then, father,’ said I, still kneeling before him, ‘ I must 
beg you to inform Mr. Duncan that I cannot grant him an 
interview, or listen for a moment to his proposals ; for my 
heart already acknowledges a possessor whom I can at once 
respect and love.’ 

“ ‘ Anna, what do you mean ? ’ replied my father, with much 
agitation. 

“ ‘ I mean, dear father, that with all my heart I love Kob- 
ert Graham, and his wife only can I be without perjuring 


28 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


my plighted faith/ answered 1, scarcely conscious of what I 
said. 

“ A gentle knock at the door prevented the reply bursting 
from my father’s lips, and Robert Graham entered just in 
time to avert the storm of wrath from my head. Gazing with 
surprise on my kneeling form and the agitated countenances of 
both, and with ready instinct divining the cause, he, too, knelt 
before my father, and, with my hand clasped in his own, 
exclaimed, ‘ Will you not bless your children ? ’ 

“ ‘ Never ! ’ uttered my father, in tones which struck terror 
to our hearts, and caused mine, at least, to sink in despair — 
for well I knew their import. It had been the work of an 
instant ; but in that one moment all our fond hopes had been 
concentrated, and with a word were they thus blighted. O, 
what a fearful responsibility does a father bring upon himself 
when he thus hopelessly shuts out the first light of love from 
the heart of his child ! 

“ I have but an indistinct recollection of the remainder of 
that morning’s interview. I knew that no pleading, earnest 
as it was, of Robert’s, could soften my father’s heart or change* 
his determination ; and, with many reproaches, he banished 
him from the house, not, however, without conceding to him 
the privilege of one last interview with me, after I should 
become more composed. But, in the wild ravings of delirium 
ever ringing the changes on the dreadful word ‘ never 
Robert was forced to leave me, as the appointment he had 
received admitted of no delay. He had, as I afterwards 
learned, incessantly importuned my father to alleviate our 
doom, by giving him some distant hope. But he was told 
that I must and should forget this youthful fancy, and marry 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


29 


as my friends wished. Then Robert, in the anguish of his 
soul, wrote the farewell he could not speak ; assuring me of 
his constancy, and implicitly confiding in mine, though I 
might be compelled, through inability to avert it, to acquiesce 
in my impending fate ! 0, how different was his departure 

from a .1 that our fond anticipations had pictured ! Solitary 
he sought his distant home, where he had hoped to find his 
little world of happiness.” 

“ Dear Anna,” interrupted Mrs. Lindsey, while her own 
tears were fast flowing in sympathy with her friend, “ this is 
too painful; I little thought I was awakening remembrances 
so bitter. Much as I desire to hear the rest of your story, — 
and that I do most intensely, — I cannot permit my curiosity 
to cause you so much suffering.” 

“You are the first and only one, Bessie, to whom I could 
thus pour out my heart, and perhaps it is wrong to speak of 
those things even to you ; but I feel that it will do me good, 
and I shall be none the less faithful to my duties because you 
have helped me bear my burden. How I wish I could ever 
have^ou near me ! ” 

“ And so you will, for I have come with my dear husband 
to live in the village yonder, and every day we can see each 
other. Herbert will be delighted to meet you — he has heard 
me say so much about you.” 

“Then you did marry Herbert, whose name caused you 
to blush so when we were at school ! Tell me all about it, 
Bessie.” 

“Marry him! Yes, to be sure I did,” replied Bessie; 
“what could I have done without him? for I, too, have 
had sorrow, Anna, though not like yours. My dear father, 

3 * 


so 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


who, 3 ’ou know, was all in all to me, died the very day I be- 
came Herbert’s wife ; and though he fell asleep as sweetly 
and quietly as an infant, my heart would have been crushed 
by its bereavement, had it not been for the blessed sympathy 
of my husband. So tenderly did He, ‘ whose loving-kindness 
changeth not,’ remove me from my childhood’s ever-watchful 
guide, to the protection of one scarcely less dear or less de- 
voted, I could not murmur at the messenger of mercy who 
so gently called him home.” 

“ 0, Bessie, you were always so hopeful, you could bear 
trouble better than I,” replied Mrs. Duncan, with a sigh. 

“ Bather say, my dear Anna, that I have been enabled to 
cast my burden on One who has promised to sustain me ; and, 
though your troubles are more grievous to be borne, yet is He 
able to sustain you, also. But I must hasten home, for it is 
nearly dinner-time, and I should be sadly missed at our table, 
where two of us compose the whole family.” 

“ I cannot let you go, dear Bessie, without a promise that 
you will return this afternoon,” said Mrs. Duncan, as she once 
more threw her arms around her, “ ’t is such a luxury fo see 
you, and I have so much more to say and to hear ! ” 

“ If not this afternoon, I will come to-morrow morning, 
Anna,” replied Bessie, affectionately kissing her; “be as- 
sured I am anxious to hear the rest as soon as you are able 
to bear the recital, which your pale face admonishes me is not 
to-day. ’ 


CHAPTER V. 


*< But when to mischief mortals bend their will, 

How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! ” 

Pope. 

. Among. the hills of Yorkshire, remarkable for their pic- 
turesque scenery, there stood a noble mansion, whose magnifi- 
cent parks and highly-cultivated grounds proclaimed at once 
the refined taste and opulence of the owner. It was one of 
those delightful spots so common in England, where each 
generation, as it hands down to posterity the fruits of its 
labor, leaves also its own impress in the taste and care 
bestowed on the inheritance. Most skilfully had the exquisite 
taste of the former owner of Beechgrove displayed itself, in 
rendering it one of the most beautiful retreats upon which the 
eye could rest. Grottoes, fountains, murmuring waters min- 
gling with the songs of rare and costly birds, enchanting the 
senses almost to satiety, would abruptly terminate in the 
wildest, grandest scenery of nature’s mould, — winding paths 
shaded by the noble and majestic trees which gave to the 
place its simple and unpretending name, suddenly revealing 
on one hand favorite bowers for the fairies’ revels, while 
shudderingly the eye would turn to gaze from the overhanging 


82 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


precipice on the other side, down the deep, dark ravine int< 
which the waters were madly dashing over its rocky sides. 
These ever-vaiying though never-wearying beauties of art 
and nature combined evinced, as we before said, the exquisite 
taste of its former owmer sorry are we to add that, at the 
time to which our story relates, it had come into the posses- 
sion of one who could see nothing in this unique blending of 
extremes but the oddity of a bachelor uncle, who, having no 
nearer relations, had made his sister’s only child sole heir to 
his princely fortune, together with the homestead which it had 
been his life-long business to bring to its present perfection. 
William Duncan, or Sir William, as he was now called, thus 
suddenly stepped from comparative obscurity, in Ireland, io 
the ownership and occupancy of an estate whose beauty he 
could not appreciate, and whose greatest charm, to his shallow 
mind, was the rare facilities it afforded for game and the 
chase. From these employments he was certainly not 
restrained by any domestic allurements. Lady Duncan, ever 
weak-minded, was too much engrossed in the honors of her 
unexpected elevation to think or care for the pursuits of 
either her husband or son. The latter was, therefore, left to 
follow his own inclination, both in the choice of companions 
and amusements; nor was he long in developing traits of 
character which showed but too plainly that, with the reck- 
lessness of his father, he also imbibed the puerility of his 
mother. 

Not all the admonitions of Father Bernaldi, their family 
confessor, nor the remonstrances of his tutor, joined with the 
entreaties and even threats of parents, could check the im- 
petuosity with which he plunged into every species of dissipa- 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


33 


tion. With a mind undisciplined, and naturally self-willed, 
he sought only his own gratification, regardless alike of the 
proprieties of life or the laws of nature. It was, therefore, 
no matter of surprise to the good physician, who was sum- 
moned to the bedside of Charles Duncan, that he found his 
constitution shattered, and his whole system enervated. With 
great assiduity did Dr. Murray set himself to the task of 
restoring vigor to the body, while the zealous priest was no 
less indefatigable in his labors to reclaim the heart, and bring 
him within the pale of holy mother church. The partial suc- 
cess of both was visible, as, after a tedious confinement of 
three months, he bent his steps, one Sabbath morning, to the 
chapel to celebrate mass, and bowed his head to receive 
the sprinkling of holy water from the reverend father’s 
hands. 

At the doctor’s suggestion, seconded by Father Bemaldi, 
vho was fearful of losing the little influence he had already 
gained, when Charles should again be able to mingle with 
former associates, it was decided that he should spend a year 
or two abroad, in the company and under the guidance of 
the faithful priest. Together, therefore, they sought the 
shores of America, with no other object than to while away 
the time in the manner most conducive to the health and 
spirits of the heir of Beechgrove. 

To a mind that had failed to appreciate the inimitable 
grandeur and beauty surrounding his own home, the scenery 
of New England would scarcely seem worthy of a passing 
notice. Though nature welcomed him in her gayest mood, 
and smilingly strewed his path with her choicest treasures ; 
though flowers rich and rare bent their lovely forms before 


34 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


him, and filled his every breath with fragrance ; and though 
the hills — our own glorious New England hills — with their 
boundless wealth of luxurious foliage, seemed to bow their 
noble heads, and sent forth their feathered choir to entice him 
to their forest home, yet was not his spirit attuned to this 
pure melody, nor his heart fitted to mingle with this simple 
worship of nature. Far more delightful to him were the 
Bounds of revelry and mirth, and the congeniality he sought 
dwelt only in the haunts of the pleasure-seeking world. 
Towards the gay metropolis, therefore, he hastily turned his 
steps, willingly aided by Father Bernaldi, to whose counsel 
he listened just so far as it accorded with his own gratifica- 
tion, and who, therefore, felt doubly the need of other watch' 
ful eyes than his own to guard the wayward youth. 

Having domesticated themselves in the most luxurious 

apartments they could command in the city of B , Charles 

Duncan entered with keen zest into the new scenes of dissipa- 
tion thus opened before him, and pleasure soon enrolled him 
among her gayest votaries. Meanwhile, Bernaldi, ever wary 
and vigilant for the interests of the church he served, had 

sought the presence of Bishop , to whom he was bearer 

of a letter from his most worshipful reverence the Bishop of 
York, within whose diocese lived Sir William Duncan. It 
ran thus : 

^ “ In Alphonse Bernaldi, the bearer of this, you will recog- 
nize our most faithful emissary, to whom has been intrusted 
the care of an important though capricious youth. It is our 
pleasure that you afford him all the aid he needs in the watch 
and care of th..s person, that so he may be brought within the 
most holy church, and his estates be converted to her use and 
Hugh Percy, Bishop of York,'’ 

. m 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


35 


‘‘ And you say this young man is rather headstrong,” quo 
ried the bishop, as he refolded the letter and filed it among 
his “ important documents.” 

“ Ay, that he is,” replied Bernaldi ; “ he pays but little 
heed to anything but his own gratification.” 

“ What do you consider the weakest — the most accessible 
point in his character ? ” asked the wily bishop. 

“ Eeally, sir, he is altogether so weak, it is difficult to point 
out any one deficiency,” answered the priest. 

The right reverend father sat some moments in deep thought ; 
at length he inquired, “ Is he fond of gaming? ” 

“ He is, passionately,” replied Bernaldi. 

“ I have him, then,” exultingly exclaimed the bishop, as 
his keen gray eyes twinkled with delight ; “all you have to 
do is to encourage him in this amusement ; I will take care 
of the rest;” and he rubbed his hands with infinite satisfac- 
■ tion as his guest rose to leave. 

“You will find a faithful coadjutor in all your reverence 
desires,” obsequiously added Father Bernaldi ; “ I will from 
time to time report to you his progress.” 

“ Do so,” said the bishop, as he sat down to arrange his 
well-conceived plan. 

“ Where to-night, my young man ? ” playfully inquired the 
companion of Charles Duncan, as they rose frc^i the tea-table, 
and the latter prepared to go out. 

“ Where ? why, wherever fun and frolic reign I shall be 
sure to go, good father ; why do you ask ? ” carelessly replied 
Charles. 

“Do you never think, Charles, how lonely it must be to sit 


36 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


here moping over my books till midnight, waiting for you ? ” 
said Father Bernaldi, reproachfully. 

“ Why, you astonish me,” exclaimed Charles, incredulously, 
looking at his companion. “I thought you was the happiest man 
in the world, with your books, and prayers, and good deeds.” 

“ Well, now, suppose I should confess to you, Charles, that 
I do sometimes tire of these things, and long to get a little 
insight into the world of pleasure, — what would you think ? ” 

“ Think — why, I should be perfectly delighted just to show 
you a little of what I call pleasure ; but,” he added, laugh- 
ingly, “ I fear your priestly robes would be sadly out of place 
where I go to-night.” 

“ Why not, then, lay them aside for one evening ? ” warily 
answered the priest. 

“What do you mean, my good father-confessor?” replied 
Charles, with more feeling than Bernaldi thought he pos- 
sessed ; “if it is your intention to play the spy on me, you- 
had better stick to your prayers, for, mind you, I ’m not to be 
dogged about anywhere.” • 

“ Pardon me, Charles, nothing was further from my inten- 
tion than such a course,” humbly replied the abashed priest. 
“ It is a weakness, I confess, which I must overcome ; but I 
had a desire to spend this evening with you.” 

“ Come, then, good father, we won’t quarrel, and if you 
will promise n(ft to preach to me again for a month, I shall be 
glad of your company to-night ; but, mind you, not a word to 
the old man about it, or else he might cut off my supplies.” 

“My word for it, he shall not know anything from me,” 
promptly responded Bernaldi, by whom such a result would 
be equally deprecated. 




ANNA CLAYTON. 


.37 


The brilliantly-lighted saloon, into which Charles Duncan 
and his friend were ushered, presented, even at that early 
hour, a very lively scene. Groups of all classes, from the 
princely merchant to the meagre-salaried clerk, were collected 
in various parts of the room, eagerly discussing matters of 
interest pertaining to their evening’s amusement, or earnestly 
watching. at the tables those who had already launched into 
the tide of luck. Servants, continually passing and repassing, 
with their tempting displays of delicacies and choice wines, 
served up in rich glass and massive silver, gave to y;ie whole 
an air of enjoyment alluring to the uninitiated. 

The entrance of the two new comers would not, of course, 
excite much attention, where so many were coming and going ; 
but a close observer, in glancing around the room, could not 
fail to notice that a pair of keen black eyes were bent upon 
them searchingly, and immediately withdrawn, while a precon- 
certed signal was given to one standing near them. With a 
careless and somewhat indifferent manner this person ap- 
proached Charles, and in his blandest tone invited him to 
join a group just forming around a faro-table. At any other 
time and place, Charles would have hesitated before mingling 
with a set of entire strangers ; but the invitation, though ab- 
rupt, was so courteously extended, and the appearance of the 
person so perfectly in accordance with his ideas of a gentle- 
man, that he at once accepted, and, telling his companion, in 
a low voice, to seek for his own amusement, he was soon too 
deeply absorbed in the game to observe what was passing 
around him. / 

Other eyes than Mr. Manning’s had noticed the searching 
glance bestowed on them ; and no sooner had Charles separated 
4 


33 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


himself from Father Bernaldi than the latter, gliding cau* 
tiously along, found himself vis-a-vis to those small gray eyes, 
whose peculiar expression he had noted in his morning’s in- 
terview. So complete was the transformation effected in each 
other by their assumed disguises, that it required great 
shrewdness to detect the smooth, fair face and bald head of 
the reverend bishop, beneath those flowing locks, heavy eye- 
brows, and patriarchal beard ; and no less cunning was evinced 
in identifying the gay and fashionably-dressed young man of 
pleasure with the meek and obsequious father-confessor. A 
scarcely perceptible start, as they passed each other, was the 
only intimation to Bernaldi that the recognition was mutual. 

Warily they threaded their way, stopping to note, with 
apparent interest, the success of one, or sympathizing with the 
ill luck of another, till they reached an unoccupied table, 
where they could overhear, without being seen by the parties 
near them. Seating themselves and ordering refreshments, 
with merely the simple courtesy of strangers, the elder of the 
two was soon seemingly absorbed in the contents of the news- 
paper before him, while the other, with an ill-concealed attempt 
at indifference, listened to the conversation near him. 

“ I say. Manning, what a deuced fine fellow you are ! ” 
exclaimed Charles Duncan, as he heaped up his ill-gotten 
winnings and prepared for a larger stake; “ you ’re 'the best 
player I ever see. Come, now, give us another glass, and we ’ll 
try it again.” 

“Eeally, Mr. Duncan, your remarks are very flattering,” 
replied Mr. Manning, with a sarcastic smile ; “ allow me the 
honor of refilling your glass. Gentlemen, here ’s to the health 
and prosperity of our new friend ! ” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


39 


Every glass was drained save the speaker’s, who quietly 
replaced his on the table unobserved, the lurking smile betray- 
ing his evident satisfaction. 

“ What say you, Mr. Duncan, to a drive into the country 
to-morrow, to see some of our rustic beauties ? ” 

“ Agreed ! ” cried the half-drunken Charles. “ I declare 
you are the cleverest chap I ’ve met with in this country ; 
let ’s make up a ruralizing party to-morrow at my expense,” 
continued he, elated with wine and success, “ and we ’ll choose 
Mr. Manning for our guide.” 

Their assent was pledged in another glass, when IMr. Man- 
ning proposed retiring, that they might be prepared for their 
next day’s excursion. Gently drawing Charles’ arm within 
his own, he quietly led the way through several streets to his 
apartments at the hotel. . The fumes of the wine Charles had 
so freely imbibed, though still coursing through his brain, 
did not blind him to the fact that Mr. Manning seemed 
familiar with his locality. With a half-puzzled air, he ex- 
claimed, 

“ IIow the deuce you knew where I lived I cannot imagine ; 
but I ’ve taken quite a fancy to you ; so come in and have a 
little chat over a glass of Madeira.” 

Mr. Manning did not require a second invitation, and, with 
graceful ease throwing himself into the prolfered seat, he spoke 
in his most winning tones. 

“ It is not often my judgment and inclination agree in the 
choice of friends, but this evening has convinced me that such 
may be found, and I rejoice that the interest with which you 
inspired me is mutual. We shall indeed be friends.” 

Could Charles Duncan have looked into the heart of the 


40 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


speaker as he uttered so emphatically this prediction, even h& 
would have shrunk with disgust from its fulfilment; for, though 
deeply versed in dissipation and vice, this had been rather the 
result of a weak intellect, combined with an impulsive nature, 
than the distillations of a naturally malicious heart. Philip 
Manning, on the contrary, might justly be compared to a 
“ whited sepulchre,” polished externally, pleasing to the eye, 
captivating to the senses, but within full of uncleanness and 
pollution. 

The reverend father was not ignorant of the peculiar quali- 
fications of the instrument he had employed to decoy his 
unwary victim ; and the supply of means, together with prom- 
ised future reward, was a sufficient incentive to put in 
requisition all Philip’s consummate art. With ready tact he 
had at once, as we have seen, ingratiated himself with Charles ; 
and as they now sat sipping their social glass, he adroitly 
drew from him all he wished to know, both of his past life 
and future intentions. They parted at a late hour, in the' best 
possible humor with each other. Charles was delighted that 
in his new friend he had also found an agreeable companion 
for his revels, and Manning was no less pleased that he had 
such a pliant nature to mould. 

It was not till Charles was left alone that he bethought 
himself of Father Bernaldi. Hastily seizing his hat, and 
reproaching himself for his neglect, he was about to return to 
the saloon where he had left him, when he perceived two 
persons standing in the doorway in earnest conversation, one 
of whom, at his approach, walked hastily away, and the 
other, turning towards him, revealed the features of the rev- 
erend father. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


41 


“You must excuse me,” said the unsuspecting Charles, 
laughing ; “ I am so used to going and coming alone that I 
entirely forgot you to-night, — indeed, I almost forgot myself 
in the fascinating society of my new friend.” 

“ It was just as well,” replied the priest ; “ I found my way 
without difficulty. But who, pray, has so nearly charmed 
you out of your own identity ? ” 

“ All I know about him, father, is, that he is a perfect 
gentleman and delightful companion; and that is all I care 
for.” 

“ Beware, my son, how you mingle with these men of pleas- 
ure ! I trust you are destined for higher pursuits than those 
in which you have engaged this evening,” solemnly added 
Father Bernaldi, as he laid aside his borrowed garments. 

“You promised not to preach to me again for a month,” 
petulantly exclaimed Charles, “ and here you are at it again 
before we have been in the house half an hour ! I suppose 
the next thing you will be blabbing to the old man ! ” 

“I only warn you for your good,” meekly replied Bcr- 
naldi. 


4 # 


CHAPTER VI. 


« This work requires long time, dissembling looks, 

Commixt with undermining actions, 

Watching advantages to execute.” 

With the first beams of the morniDg sun Philip Manning 
arose, and, hastily dressing himself, proceeded, with noiseless 
steps, through a long corridor which led from his dwelling to 
the apartments occupied by the right-reverend bishop. Giv- 
ing the usual signal, he was immediately admitted by the 
prelate himself, and for two hours their low and earnest tones 
might be heard in eager discourse. At length the door slowly 
opened, and Philip, after casting a quick, searching glance 
around, returned by the same passage to his own room, where 
he completed his morning’s toilet with care, and partook of a 
sumptuous breakfast. 

A more experienced observer than Charles Duncan could 
not have seen the slightest defect in his figure or dress as he 
emerged from the house, an hour later, to join his companions 
in the contemplated excursion ; but the sinister expression of 
his eye, and the Judas-like smile playing around his lips, 
betrayed the villain beneath this elegant exterior. 

“ Well, Mr. Manning,” said one of the party, as he and 
Charles approached, “ where shall we go to-day ? You are 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


43 


to be the guide, you know ; so we have only to follow your 
directions.” 

“ If I am to lead you to-day,” replied Manning, pleasantly 
smiling, “ it shall be wherever you choose to go. I have just 
heard, by the by, that there is to be a village fair about 
twenty miles from here. What say you to a peep at the 
country fairies, and a purchase from some of those plump, 
white hands ? ” 

“ 0, by all means let ’s go to the country fair ! ” eagerly 
exclaimed Charles, seconded by the others. And for the fair 
they started in high spirits, full of glee with their anticipated 
fun. 

“ I declare, if there an’t old Clayton’s carriage ! ” said 
J ohnson, as they drove into the yard of the only inn the vil- 
lage afforded ; “if we catch a sight of his pretty daughter, 
we shall be well paid for coming, I ’ll agree.” 

“Dick, why don’t you strike there?” replied Manning j 
“ you ’re handsome enough to captivate any girl.” 

“But not Anna Clayton, Manning; Kichard Johnson’s 
not the man for that. Besides, she’s already spoken for, 
judging by the sweet looks and smiles she bestows on that 
handsome fellow who is always at Her side.” 

“ You mean Bobert Graham,” said Morton, contemptuously. 
“ Depend upon it, old Clayton never ’ll let his daughter marry 
that poor scamp.” 

“If he is poor,” replied Johnson, warmly, “he is the 
noblest-hearted fellow I know of. If anybody is fit to marry 
her, it is Bobert Graham.” 

“ It seems to me you are quite enlisted in her service,” 




i 


41 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


laughingly interrupted Manning. “We must assuredly see 
this paragon of beauty, — eh, Duncan?” 

“ That we must ; and; in the mean time, let ’s go in and 
di'ink to her health,” replied Charles. 

Great had been the bustle and excitement, particularly 
among the young folksL in their preparation for this merr^ 
making. Notices had been posted in all the neighboring 
towns, and the streets of the usually quiet little village were 
now teeming with life, as they poured in from every side, a 
gay throng of rustic beaux and belles. 

Charles was enraptured with this display of country charms, 
and eagerly participated in the festive scenes, so new to him ; 
dancing with one, flirting with another, and frolicking with 
troops of country lasses, in high glee. He had managed, with 
the help of his friend Manning, to ingratiate himself with 
Squire Clayton, the wealthiest and most aristocratic man in 
the whole region, and sued, but in vain, for the hand of his 
fair daughter, in the dance. To every invitation “ engaged ” 
was the smiling answer ; and he saw, with evident chagrin, 
that it was far from being an unwilling reply. Piqued, at 
length, by her indifference, he sought more willing partners ; 
but the vision of her lovely form, floating gracefully about in 
the mazes of the dance, seemed to him more beautiful than 
anything he had ever seen, and stirred withint a 'depth of 
feeling hitherto unknown to himself. 

Happily for Charles, the simple habits of the villagers 
required no stronger stimulant than their own free, joyous 
spirits ; else his unrestrained fondness for the wine-cup would 
have lessened the admiration with which Squire Clayton 
(who, by the by. Manning took care to inform of Charles’ 


> 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


45 


station and fortune) regarded him. The old man was not 
insensible to the attractions of titled wealth, and he looked 
with surprise upon his daughter’s evident aversion to the 
object of it. Treating it, however, as a girlish freak, he was 
more assiduous in his own attentions, and, at parting with 
Carles, gave him a cordial invitation to visit his house 
whenever it suited his pleasure. 

Nothing could have been more in accordance with Charles’ 
wishes, and he resolved to improve to the utmost the oppor- 
tunity thus afforded him of meeting one whom his heart 
acknowledged unequalled by any of her sex. Carefully con- 
cealing from Father Bernaldi and his friend Manning the new 
passion thus awakened within him, he quietly sought the man- 
sion of Squire Clayton, where he was received with deferential 
politeness by the father, and cool indifference by the daughter. 

In early childhood Anna Clayton had been bereft of a 
mother’s love and care, though not before she had given 
promise of rare loveliness, and a gentle, winning, affectionate 
disposition. The idol of the whole household, she became 
doubly endeared to her widowed father, who, after the death 
of his much-loved wife, seemed to exist only for her. Ever 
worldly-minded and irreligious, he had no source of conso- 
lation, in his li^e-long bereavement, save in the gradually 
unfolding beauty and grace of his only child. Most lovingly 
would his eye follow her fairy form, as day after day she 
tripped lightly off to school, hand in hand with her insepar- 
able and almost only companion, Bobert Graham ; or, as he 
gat in his library overlooking the garden, his ear would be 
regaled with her shouts of merry laughter, as she joyously 
gambolled with her schoolmate. Thus Anna grew up a 




46 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


cherished flower, living in the sunlight of her father’s love, 
and, what she prized next, the companionship of the noble, 
manly Kobert, son of a much-valued neighbor. 

But not always were her days to glide thus smoothly 
along. With her expanding intellect, her father was pain- 
fully reminded of the insufficiency of the schools in their own 
village, and the consequent necessity of placing her wh^ 
she could complete her education, and at the same time ac- 
quire those accomplishments so suited to her nature. With 
many tears did the doting father intrust this, his only treas- 
ure, to the care of Mrs. Delafield, a lady of superior mind 
and literary attainments, who, having lost husband and child, 
devoted herself with eminent success to the instruction of 
young ladies. A better selection could not have been made ; 
for, while assiduously striving to improve their minds, she 
did not forget that the cultivation of the heart was no less 
essential to the welfare of her pupils. With her humble, 
fervent piety brightly illumining the path of science, she led 
them through all its intricacies with the same quiet, gentle 
cheerfulness, ever pointing upward to the great Source of all 
knowledge. 

The pure and heart-felt devotion of her teacher produced 
a deep and lasting impression on Anna’s susceptible nature ; 
but in vain did that teacher seek its reflection in her heart. 
While she acknowledged its inestimable value to one like 
Mrs. Delafield, so bereft of earthly treasures, her awn little 
world was so filled with happiness and love, she felt no other 
want. Weeks, months and years, flew by, each in their turn 
laying at her feet its tribute of earthly devotion; and her 
heart was satisfied. What blpssing could she crave that was 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


47 


not already hers? A father’s love smoothing every rugged 
path before her ; a patient, loving teacher, cheering her through 
many a tedious maze; light-hearted, merry companions; 
with their exhaustless school friendships ; and, what must be 
confessed as prized above all, the ceaseless, unalterable affec- 
tion of her early schoolmate, Hobert Graham, glowing in every 
line of his oft-repeated letters, and gushing with irresistible 
tenderness from his lips when they met — were not these 
sufficient to cast a bright halo around her existence, and satisfy 
every longing of her heart ? 

Anna left her home a gay, thoughtless, lovely child, and 
she returned to that home, after a few years’ absence, realizing 
her father’s fondest anticipations, in the perfection of her 
mind, her exceeding beauty, and the simple purity of her 
heart. 

Such was she, when, mingling with gay and joyous spirits 
in the rural festivities of a neighboring fair, she first saw 
Charles Duncan. What wonder that her pure mind shrunk 
from his proffered hand, or that her indifference should grow 
into disgust, as his repeated and unwelcome visits at her 
father’s house seemed to have some deeper significance than 
common courtesy ? Her blind, infatuated father saw nothing 
repulsive in the handsome, wealthy, aristocratic young man, 
but secretly rejoiced in his evident admiration of his lovely 
daughter. His most sanguine expectations had never led him 
to imagine her the wife of a titled nobleman, though he doubted 
not her fitness for such a station ; but now that it seemed 
within her reach, he could scarce contain his joy, or wait with 
patience the desired consummation. Dazzled with her bril- 
liant prospects, the thought of her heart’s wild pleadings 


48 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


against such a union, if harbored for a moment, returned not 
again. Thus, when, with elated steps and undisguised satis- 
faction, he sought his daughter to communicate to her the 
success of all his hopes, how great was his surprise and 
chagrin when she avowed, not only her extreme repugnanee 
to the man of his choice, but that her heart was already 
pledged to one every way worthy of the gift, and that his 
sanction only was wanting to complete their happiness ! Now, 
for the first time, did the bitterness of his heart vent itself 
up6n her defenceless head, with crushing, overpowering weight, 
and she fell senseless at his feet. Start not, thou self-con- 
demned father ! Seek not to restore the wild throbbings of 
the heart thou hast well-nigh broken ; for already has her 
life’s great trial begun, and its shadow is even now envelop- 
ing both her and thyself within its dread embrace. 

For many days had Charles absented himself, upon trifling 
excuses, ere the vigilant Bernaldi became aware that some- 
thing unusual was absorbing the attention of his charge. 
Communicating at once his suspicions to the holy father, they 
were not long in discovering the cause ; and great, indeed, 
was their consternation that their plans should be thus baffled. 
Frequent and earnest were their remonstrances with Charles, 
but it only resulted in his greater determination to follow his 
own way. We must do him the credit to say that his love 
for the beautiful Anna was the purest feeling ever awakened 
within him, and for the time checked his profligate course. 

Foiled in their effort to eonvert Charles to their own in- 
terests, and his fortune to the dispceal of the- ehureh, the wily 
bishop and priest lost no time in consulting the right rev- 
erend father from whom they had received their instructions, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


49 


and to whom was communicated the most trifling circum- 
stances respecting the whole family of Claytons. What a 
holy religion, whose curious eyes thus pry with selfish intent 
into the very secret of our thoughts, and lay open before the 
greedy, devouring eyes of her hirelings our most cherished 
home associations ! 

“We have well considered the whole subject laid before 
us, and, while deprecating the results, which we doubt not 
your most faithful efforts were exerted to prevent, we yet see 
much occasion to advance the interests of our most holy 
church. We, therefore, advise that you offer no further 
obstacles to the young man’s wishes ; but, keeping fully in 
his confidence, endeavor earnestly to win to the worship of 
the Blessed Virgin, not only him, but the family you men- 
tioned. Bet no efforts be spared to this most desirable endj 
and, furthermore, suffer no heretic to interfere in your plans, 
or perform the rites of marriage, should there be occasion.” 

Such, in part, was the missive received in answer to their 
own, and their course was now plain as well as pleasant. 

“ Come, Charles,” said Father Bernaldi, cheerfully, the 
morning after he had received this letter ; “ you have grown 
wonderfully selfish lately. With all your professions of 
attachment to me, you have not even offered to show me your 
treasure. Come, now, let us visit her to-day, and, if I find 
her half as beautiful or attractive as you represent, I shall 
not have the heart to oppose you any longer, even though I 
shall incur the displeasure of your father.” 

“ Will you promise me, good father,” eagerly cried the 
delighted Charles, “ that on these conditions you will lend ms 
your aid in securing the treasure ? ” 

5 


50 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ I promise,” replied Bernaldi. 

“ But I must forewarn you that she does not favor my 
suit,” sadly answered CharleSi “ and only through her father 
can I hope for success.” 

“ Faint heart never won fair lady,” laughingly replied 
Bernaldi ; “ but, if I am to interest myself for you, you must 
also make me a promise.” 

“ I would promise anything, even to the half of my pos- 
sessions, to claim the hand of Anna Clayton. What is it? ” 

« That when you do claim that hand, your faithful friend 
and companion shall bless the nuptial vow,” feelingly 
responded the priest, with well-affected emotion. 

“ That you shall,” said Charles, warmly grasping his ha, ad, 
and may that blessed hour be not far distant ! ” 

“ Amen ! ” uttered Bernaldi, with deep feeling. 


» 


OHAPTEE VII. 


** 0 ! for a curse upon the cunning priest 
Who conjured us together in a yoke 
That galls me now ! ** 

« What is wedlock forced but a hell. 

An age of discord and continual strife ? ’* 


Bessie’s tender heart was deeply affected by her inter riew 
with her former favorite and schoolmate, and she vainly 
endeavored, as she turned restlessly upon her couch, to shut 
out the vision of that pale, sad face, so changed from the light- 
hearted, joyous Anna of former days. 

“ Why is it, Herbert ?”jr6aid sfce, thoughtfully, as she sat 
with her husband cosily sipping their cup of coffee the next 
morning, “ why is it that l am loaded with blessings till my 
cup of happiness ^eems almost overflowing, while Anna, the 
bright and beautiful being of school remembrance, whose 
radiant existence seemed but the prediction of future joy and 
life-long happiness, is drooping like a faded flower, sadly 
wearing away her life, with no ray of light to cheer the 
future ? ” 

“ Why, Bessie,” replied her husband, “ your sleepless night 
has made you quite poeticj and the question you have so 


52 


ANNA CLAYTON 


simply proposed has puzzled wiser heads thau years or mine. 
But, seriously,” continued he, “ we cannot doubt that beneath 
all that suffering there is hidden some wise purpose, which 
will yet be revealed ; and though we cannot fathom that wis- 
dom, we feel assured that ‘ He doeth all things well.’ But 
come, wife,” he added, “ I am growing impatient to hear the 
sequel of the sad tale you told me last night. I am going 
out to see some of my good people ; suppose I call, a few hours 
hence, at Squire Clayton’s ; will you be ready to walk home 
with me?” 

“ Yes, indeed,” replied Bessie; “ and I shall be so glad to 
have you see Anna ! She needs just such counsel as you alone 
can give her.” 

With ready sympathy, and warm, gushing love, Bessie sought 
her friend, whom she found reclining on an easy-chair in her 
own chamber. How surpassingly lovely was that face, 
lighted up with joy at her entrance ! Though sorrow had 
marked its course in unmistakable lines, it could not efface 
nature’s impress; and the c\ear, open brow, the deep, liquid 
blue eye, the inexpressibly sweety mouth, all testified to the 
beauty implanted there, though now shaded by the sad expres- 
sion of hopeless suffering. 

Bessie grasped warmly the hand extended to welcome her, 
exclaiming, 

“Why, Anna dear, your pale face reproaches me for 
wearying you yesterday. I ought to have been more con- 
siderate.” 

“ No, Bessie,” replied she, “ you are mistaken if you sup- 
pose it has injured me ; when you have seen me a little longer 
you will become accustomed to my weakness.” 


ANNA CLA YTON, 


53 


But indifferent to it I shall never be,” added Bessie, ear- 
nestly ; “all night long have my thoughts been with you, 
Anna, and, though I know not yet all you have suffered, my 
heart yearns with inexpressible sympathy to comfort you.” 

“ Dear Bessie, I always loved you at school, but now your 
dear smiling face and soothing words are as balm to my 
wounded spirit, and lead me to feel that I may yet be cheer- 
ful, though never happy. When 1 have recalled all the pain- 
ful scenes through which I have passed since I saw you, you 
will better know how to counsel me for the future.” 

‘Advice as inexperienced as mine would scarcely profit 
you, I fear,” replied Bessie ; “ but in my husband you will 
find not only a warm friend, but a judicious counsellor ; and 
glad will he be if in any way he can alleviate your trials.” 

“ Blessings on you both ! ” murmured Anna, her eyes filling 
with tears. “ You know not what a relief it affords thus to 
unveil the secrets of my heart to you, whose sensitive nature 
-responds to every throb of anguish ! ” 

“ Did you never see or hear from llobert after he left this 
country ? ” asked Bessie, anxious to learn more of her heart’s 
history. 

“ I will tell you all I know of Kobert,” said Anna, “ for, 
henceforth, as in the past, my lips and heart will be sealed on 
that subject. To you, the only one in whose ear I dare 
breathe his name, I can assert, confident of belief, that the 
affection of a sister for a long-lost and much-injured brother 
is not more pure than that I bear to Eobert Graham. I tore 
his image from my heart only when I became a wife ; and 
to me he exists not, save in the far-off regions of dream- 
land.” 


5 * 


‘54 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ You left off yesterday with Kobert’s departure,” said 
Bessie. “ Tell me what became of you then.” 

“ For many days,” continued Anna, “ I seemed under the 
influence of some terrible .nightmare — ghostly phantoms 
flitting around my bed, pointing at me their long, spectral 
fingers, and hissing, with fearful distinctness, in my ear, 
‘ mv>er ! ’ while I lay powerless to resist their hideous orgies, 
trembling and quivering in every fibre. But far more dread- 
ful were the realities of returning consciousness, when, sever- 
ing every tie that bound the past, my poor, misguided father 
offered me a sacrifice on the altar of his ambition. During 
all the preparations for the event, to which they had obtained, 
I know not how, my forced consent, life to me was a blank, 
on which I could only see written, in burning characters, the 
immolation of its victim. The only relief I craved, in this 
self-sacrifice, was that I might be permitted to spend in sol- 
itude the intervening time, rid of the presence of one, now 
more repulsive than ever, who must soon receive my perjured 
vows. The groans and tears, struggles and writhings of 
spirit, in which I passed those weeks, I cannot even now recall 
without shuddering. But at length I nerved myself for the 
trial, and went forth at their bidding to take upon me life’s 
great burden. 

“As I had requested, no reference had been made to me 
in their arrangements ; and when my father tenderly assisted 
me into the carriage, and took his place beside me, I had not 
courage to ask our destination. 

“ ‘ We are going to the city,’ said he, as if in answer to my 
thoughts, and gently taking my hand ; ‘ I thought a little 
journey would T)enefit you, and after the ceremony is over 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


55 


everything is in readiness to take you wherever you wish. 
My daughter will find that her obedience has been appre- 
ciated, and will not go unrewarded.’ 

“ ‘ If my father is satisfied,’ said I, scarcely daring to trust 
my voice, ‘ it is sufficient.’ 

“ ‘ I trust you will be convinced that in choosing for you I 
have sought only your own happiness,’ added he. 

“ I could not respond, and we rode in silence till the spires 
of the distant city, coming in view, reminded him that he had 
yet a duty to perform. 

“ ‘ So liberal and honorable has Charles proved himself in 
all the preliminaries,’ at length said my father, ‘ that I could 
not, in common courtesy, refuse the only favor he asked ; and 
the marriage ceremony will be performed by a very dear 
friend of his, in the chapel where he has worshipped.’ 

“‘Married by a Catholic priest, in a Catholic church, 
father?’ asked I, incredulously. 

“ ‘ What matters it, my daughter,’ replied he, evasively, 
‘who officiates, provided the laws recognize his authority? 
You do not by this means bind yourself to have any further 
connection with them ; and Charles assures me it is the only 
concession he will ever ask.’ 

“ ‘Be it so,’ said I, bitterly; ‘but remember, father, the 
responsibility of this act must rest with you.’ 

“ The scene of that heartless marriage, and the subsequent 
developments of Charles Duncan’s character, I cannot repeat. 
That he is now a drunken, dissipated profligate, is only too 
well known. I ought to mention, that after the birth of our 
dear little Charlie the same farce was again played as at our 
marriage, and he was christened by a Catholic priest. Sweet 


56 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


little fellow ! his innocent prattle is the only joy to which my 
heart responds. I forgot to say that just after our marriage 
I read in a newspaper, that I chanced to find, a notice of the 
marriage of Kobert Graham with some distinguished heiress.” 

“ Anna, you have indeed passed through much sufiering,” 
said Bessie, as the former ceased speaking, “ and I fear will 
yet see much more. You mentioned that Mr. Duncan (for I 
cannot call him your husband) is heir to large estates. Where 
are they ? ” 

“ In England, but he has never informed me particularly 
about it; he seems to shun any inquiries, and even told me, 
tauntingly, in one of his drunken turns, that he never intended 
to have me go there, — that he meant to go back, some day, 
and marry a great lady.” 

“ Is it possible he can thus abuse you, my poor Anna ? ” 
replied Bessie. 

“ 0, I should not dare to tell you one half of the ill treat- 
ment I receive from him,” said Anna, as the tears coursed 
down her cheeks. .“I have succeeded in getting a partial 
promise from him that he will leave me and return to his own 
family. Would he only do so, it would lighten my heart, 

and I might yet find much comfort in living for dear little 
Charlie.” 

“But how does your father endure to see you suffer, 
knowing, as he must, that he caused the misery?” asked 
Bessie. 

“ My poor father now sees and acknowledges his error,” 
replied Anna, “and bitterly does he reproach himself for 
every pang I bear. His devotion to me and little Charlie is 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


5T 


really affecting. But the poisoned arrow has entered my 
heart, and will ever leave its sting behind.” 

“ O, that I could lead you, dear Anna, to the antidote for 
that poison — to that fountain whose waters would assuage 
your grief, and sweeten every bitter cup that you must drink ' ” 
fervently exclaimed Bessie. 

“ It is in vain, Bessie,” replied she, sadly shaking her 
head. “ While in health and happiness I sought for none 
save earthly treasures; and now I cannot, if I would, look 
beyond the world I have chosen, hoping to find any comfort. 
— But you remind me of Mrs. Belafield,” continued Anna, 
anxious to change the subject. “ Dear, good woman, she has 
twice spent her vacation with me since she learned of my 
unhappy marriage ; and such a blessing has she been, not only 
to me, but to my poor father, that we could scarcely bear to 
have her return to her school. I hope there is some prospect 
that she will yet b^to me, what she has ever seemed — a 
mother.^' 

“ I should rejoice for you, Anna, if that should indeed prove 
so,” replied Bessie. “ But I see my husband coming for me, 
and, though he wishes much to know you, he must call when 
you are less fatigued. We hope to welcome you into our 
little home circle as soon as you are able to ride there.” 

“ But before that you will come to see me every day, won’t 
you, Bessie ? ” 

“ I don’t know about that,” said Bessie, smiling and kissing 
her pale cheek ; “ but you will see me often enough, I ven- 
ture.” 


Droopingly as bends the lily before the storm did the fair 


58 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


and fragile form of Anna Duncan yield to the blasts of 
drunken fury with which her husband, in his madness, assailed 
her. In one of these moods he staggered into her room, 
about an hour after Bessie’s departure. Calmly waiting till 
his violence had exhausted itself, and reason was once more 
returning, Anna, with mild though resolute tone, exclaimed, 
“^Charles Duncan, I have suffered this too long already ; why 
do you not keep your promise, and leave me?” 

“ Leave you, my ducky ! ” replied he, in maudlin tones ; 
“ why, you could n’t live without me J lam your husband, you 
know ; every woman loves her husband, — ha, ha, ha ! No, I 
won’t leave you, I promise.” 

Sickened beyond measure, Anna covered her face with both 
hands to shut out the vision, and large drops trickled down 
through her wan fingers. 

“Come, now, none of that snivelling!” said he, angrily. 
“ You know I hate it, and, what ’s inore^, I won’t have it ! 
You ’ve done nothing but snivel ever since I knew you. Now, 
if you don’t stop !” said he, shaking his hand, menacingly — 

“ Charles,” interrupted she, drying her tears, “I want you 
to sit down and calmly listen to me. You have often hinted 
to me that you are laboring under some embarrassments, 
which I could, if disposed, relieve.” 

“ Why, to tell you the truth,” said he, drawing a chair 
near her, and brightening up, “ I have been pretty hard up 
lately, and Manning threatens to expose me to the old man if 
I don’t pay up. How the deuce he manages to win, all the 
time, I don’t see, when I used to be the best player.” 

“Philip Manning has always been your evil genius, 
Charles,” relied Anna. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


59 


Now, stop that talk ! Phil ’s a good fellow ; he only wants 
what belongs to him, and that he shall have, by fair means 
or foul. I ’m not the man to sneak off from doing the thing 
that ’s right. If you don’t choose to bleed the old codger for 
me, I shall do it myself — that’s all.” 

“ What is your debt to Manning? ” faintly asked Anna. 

“ He ’s got my I 0 U’s for a plump thousand,” returned 
he, “ and Be would n’t object to a hundred more just like ’em. 
But I ’m afraid the old man ’ll cut me off, if he knows it.” 

“ Bid n’t you tell me your father had written lately for 
you to come home ? ” said Anna. 

“ Yes, he did, if I would go alone, and not return here 
again. The fact is, he won’t acknowledge our marriage ; and, 
to own up, I ’m sick of it myself,” said the brutish fellow. 

“ Well, then,” replied Anna, nothing daunted by this cold- 
blooded declaration, “ if I will get for you the money to 
satisfy Mr. Manning’s claim, will you leave me, and go back 
to your father ? ” 

“ Not so fast, ducky ! You see there are several other little 
items to be taken care of, such as my wine-bill, &c. &c. A 
man cannot break up in a hurry ; and, besides, you know you 
would pine yourself to death for me,” added he, mockingly. 

Unable to conceal her detestation of the man, she hastily 
left the room to seek little Charlie, whose sweet caresses soon 
restored her wonted serenity. 

“ See here,” said Charles, following her into the nursery ; 
“ I ’ve just thought o’ something. If you ’ll do what you said 
up stairs, and let me take this little chap, I ’ll go to-morrow.” 

Anna started as at a viper’s sting, and, clasping her little 
boy in her arms, exclaimed, “ Must you add this insult to the 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


60 

abuse already heaped upon me? I would rather see this 
child laid in his grave than live in your polluted presence ! 

“ I declare ! What a good actress you would make ! ” taunt- 
ingly replied he. ‘ Positively, you would eclipse the divine 
Ellsler herself. Let the brat go,” said he, as the little fellow 
shrank away from him. “ But mind — no more of your stuff, 
ma’am ! ” shaking his fist in Anna’s face. 

The broken-hearted wife retired to her own room, and, 
throwing herself in hopeless grief upon her bed, wept till her 
exhausted nature found relief in dreamy forgetfulness. 


CHAPTEE VIII. 


* The web of our life is of a mingled 
Yarn, good and ill together.’* 

Which is he villain ? Let me see his eyes ; 

That, when I note another man like him, 

I may avoid him.” Shakspeard. 

Anna’s hopes had not been falsely raised, and she felt that 
she had yet many comforts left, as she welcomed beneath her 
father’s roof the dearly-loved teacher of her school-days, now 
bound by a closer tie. The cheerful piety and heart-felt sym- 
pathy with which Mrs. Delafield had soothed Anna in her 
hours of trial and darkness, during the vacations she had 
spent at Squire Clayton’s, had only served to cement their 
affection for each other ; and it did not escape the watchful 
eye of her father that with each separation a deeper shade 
of sadness seemed to rest upon his daughter. Nor was he 
long in discovering that it was not wholly for his daughter he 
so eagerly besought a return of these visits. His own heart 
throbbed with a new life as it acknowledged the gentle influ- 
ences of such companionship. With his judgment approving 
the choice of his heart, he sought the presence of Anna’s 
teacher, and, with manly, dignified, yet persuasive eloquence, 
pleaded for a life-long happiness with her. The result has 
6 


62 


ANNA CLA riON. 


been already anticipated in the welcome given by Anna to 
her new step-mother. 

For a few months the dove of peace seemed nestling within 
that happy circle. A tiny, beautiful babe had come among 
them, to claim a welcome to which all hearts had responded ; 
and little Charlie’s joy knew no bounds when assured, again 
and again, that the little wee thing in his grandma’s lap 
was really his own little sister, and would by and by be big 
enough to play with him. The love which then welled up 
in his baby heart for the little helpless being seemed inter- 
woven with his very existence, and never for a moment, in 
after life, ceased its devotion. 

The sorrowfully reproachful manner with which Mrs. Clay- 
ton ever regarded him caused Charles Duncan to shrink 
as much as possible from her presence. Consequently, he 
would absent himself for days, and sometimes weeks, till 
Anna had nearly regained her ^health, amid the quiet and 
happiness surrounding her. 

To her dear and valued friend Bessie this was a source of 
unmingled thankfulness ; for her heart was ever yearning with 
a sister’s love, to soothe the sorrows and heal the wounded 
spirit of one to whom she was so closely bound. Of late the 
cares of each had interrupted the intercourse that both so 
highly prized ; for in Bessie’s happy home, also, a new life 
had awakened the joyous echo of a mother’s love, and stirred 
within its very depths the fountain of her exhaustless affec- 
tion. And with no less tenderness did the happy father 
breathe a blessing over his first-born, as ne clasped to his 
heart the tiny treasure. 

Old Bridget was not so quiet in her demonstrations of joy, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


63 


on the advent of this new claimant to her affection and care. 
“ Och, the darlint ! ” exclaimed she, as she took it from the 
arms of the nurse and kissed its velvet cheek; “it isn’t the 
likes o’ yees these old eyes have looked upon this many a 
day. Shure but ’tis a blessed crayther, the very image of its 
mother ! Arrah, darlint, but ye shall niver know want while 
these hands can serve yees. And what name will ye christen 
it with, sir ? ” said she to the father, who stood smiling at her 
earnestness. 

“Should not the bud receive the name of the flower that 
bore it ? ” he asked, turning to the pale face upon the bed. 
And, receiving a smiling assent, he replied to Bridget, “ Her 
name is Bessie, and, if her life sustains all the sweetness, 
goodness and purity, bequeathed in that name, then will she 
indeed be worthy of it.” 

“May the Blissid Virgin keep and defind her from all 
harm!” solemnly responded Bridget, not exactly compre- 
hending his reply. 

“ Hush, Bridget ! ” sternly replied Mr. Lindsey. “ Curse 
not my child’s ear with such blasphemies ! Call rather upon 
one who has power to save, and not the miserable substitute 
your priests offer you ! ” 

“ It ’s not the likes of a poor, ignorant crayther that can 
rason with your riverence,” said Bridget, rising, with offended 
dignity, to leave the room ; “ but, with your lave, the big folks 
yonder have had incense burnt and mass said, and the chris- 
tening all done as it should be, by the praast, thrue Christians 
that they are and she shut the door with no gentle touch 
as she returned to her kitchen, 

“ How strangely infatuated arc the poor victims of Popish 


64 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


delusion ! ” remarked Mr. Lindsey ; “no servant could be 
kinder, more attached and faithful, than Bridget ; and yet, 
touch her religion, and she forgets everything else in her 
anger. Surely these priests have a most solemn account to 
render of their responsibility.” 

“What she said about Squire Clayton’s'family, troubles 
me/’ said Mrs. Lindsey ; “ I fear Anna has had some trials 
with her Catholic husband. Do you know anything about it, 
nurse ? ” 

“ I have heard some reports from there,” replied the nurse, 
“but of very small consequence to you compared to your 
health. I must positively forbid your talking or thinking 
any more of them at present. , You cannot, if you would, 
alter the circumstances of your friend. The care of your 
own health is now your most important duty, and you must 
keep your thoughts quiet and calm. Excuse me, dear Mrs. 
Lindsey,” continued she, “ but you must, for once in your life, 
be selfish ; excluding everything that is not perfectly agreeable 
and pleasant.” 

“ That is right, good nurse,” chimed in Mr. Lindsey ; “ I 
am sorry I should have alluded to such an exciting subject, 
but will try to make amends in future for my indiscretion.” 

“ There have been strange doings at Squire Clayton’s, if I 
am rightly informed,” said the nurse to Mr. Lindsey, at the 
table, that day ; “ Mr. Duncan came home, two or three days 
after the birth of their little daughter, and insisted that it 
should be christened, with great ceremony, in the presence of 
as many as chose to attend. Fearing the efiect of his anger 
on the health and even life of Mrs. Duncan, should they 
refuse. Squire Clayton and his wife reluctantly consented to 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


65 


it, 3n condition that Anna should be kept in ignorance of the 
strange proceedings, and molested by neither her husband nor 
the priest. The news was quickly spread, and many went 
out of mere curiosity to witness the mumbling prayers, the 
incense-burning, and the christening performed with solemn 
mockery, by the well-paid priest. In the afternoon the Cath- 
olics assembled in the same room to say mass ; no one daring 
to interpose, lest the maddened husband and his accomplice 
should revenge themselves by intruding into the sick chamber 
of Mrs. Duncan.” 

“ This is indeed a strange story ! ” exclaimed Mr. Lindsey. 
“ I was not aware that the Pope’s minions would come with 
such bold and rapid strides into the very heart of our home 
circles. I am persuaded that Mr. Duncan is guided by a 
more powerful motive than self-gratification, in his conduct. 
He has not sufficient strength of mind or purpose to meet 
many obstacles, and therefore, in overcoming the united oppo- 
sition of Squire Clayton and his excellent wife, he must have 
been urged on by some secret and influential adviser.” 

“ He scarcely ever comes home, now,” added she, “ except 
in company with one or two friends, who, many suppose are 
disguised priests.” 

“ I am grieved to hear such accounts,” replied Mr. Lind- 
sey. “ My parish visits lead me in other directions, so that I 
am seldom in that neighborhood, and consequently was not 
apprised of the state of things there. I greatly fear there 
is some evil machination on foot, by these emissaries of Satan, 
to draw the whole of that family into their snares. My wife 
must not know of this matter further than the unguarded 
remarks of Bridget informed her.” 

Q* 


66 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ I shall endeavor to keep Bridget from the sick room as 
much as possible,” said the nurse, as she rose from the table, 
“ for I have my suspicions that she has been tampered with 
by these priests; and it might be for their interests, you know, 
to endanger the life of one who has such an influence on 
Mrs. Duncan as your wife.” 

“ To what an extint will they not carry their nefarious 
schemes ! ” exclaimed Mr. Lindsey, shudderingly ; “ this mat- 
ter must be looked into at once, and by the proper authorities.” 

For once report had not exaggerated, or even attained the 
truth, as those who witnessed the disgusting details of the 
artful priest’s manoeuvring with his willing dupe could 
testify. When their object had been accomplished, even 
beyond their most sanguine expectations, Charles Duncan 
returned in triumph, with the priest who accompanied him, to 

the very holy father, the Bishop of B , who, as a reward 

for his obedient perseverance, gave him absolution for all sins 
committed, and an indulgence for the future. Weeks glided 
into months, and still were the nightly scenes of drunken 
revelry, gambling and debauch, continued, when he was sud- 
denly summoned home by news of the sickness of his father. 
With the advice of his friends, he therefore determined that 
he would now carry into effect his long-promised separation 
from his unhappy wife. The deep-laid plot which these 
friends, in connection with his spiritual advisers at home, were 
maturing, was as yet unknown to him ; or, depraved as he 
was, he might have shrunk from meeting the truthful gaze of 
his much-injured wife, or the innocent glances of the sweet 
children. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


67 


A few quiet months in the cheerful society of her beloved 
step-mother had done much to restore to Anna’s cheek the 
bloom of health ; and the ceaseless happiness she derived from 
watching the rapid progress of little Charlie, or the constantly 
increasing loveliness of Myrtie, the new pet, had contributed 
no less to the serenity of her mind, 

Mrs. Clayton was gazing from her window, one pleasant 
afternoon, upon the group under the great tree in the yard. 
Anna, in her simple loose robe of white, sat upon a stool 
Charlie brought for her, that she might be within his reach, 
while he ornamented her rich auburn hair with flowers of 
every variety of color, every now and then lovingly caressing 
her, — the baby crowing meanwhile in Susan’s arms, who could 
not refrain a hearty laugh at the grotesque, gypsy-like 
appearance of her mistress’ head-dress, — when, suddenly, with 
an exclamation of fear, and a blanched cheek, Anna rose hastily 
and sought the house, followed by Susan, and the children. 
Immediately Charles Duncan alighted from his carriage, and 
was met at the door by Mrs. Clayton, who sternly bade him 
enter and explain the object of his visit. 

“ Why, really, ma’am,” exclaimed Charles, attempting to 
rally himself from the effects of her cold reception, and Anna’s 
evident avoidance, which had not escaped his notice as he 
approached the house ; “ really, one would think you were all 
fleeing from some monster, instead of giving a fitting reception 
to an honest man, who seeks his wife ! ” 

“ And what reception should you consider befitting one like 
yourself, sir ? ” demanded she, bitterly and haughtily. 

« 0 come now, don’t give us any of your nonsense ! 


68 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


replied he ; “I ’ve come to see my wife. Where is she, — up 
stairs? ” and he rose to ascertain for himself. 

‘ Stay a moment,” said Mrs. Clayton ; “ she is not there, 
but I will call her, if it must be.*' 

Anna’s face was deadly white as she answered the sum- 
mons, and entered the presence of her husband. 

“ You all seem to avoid me,” said he, in a softer and more 
serious tone than was his wont, “ and I cannot, in all honesty, 
say that I am surprised. But, as I have come to bid you 
farewell, with an assurance that you will never be troubled 
with my presence again, I trust you will not refuse me the 
satisfaction of parting in peace.” 

So unexpected, and wholly unlike himself, were his words 
and manner, that both his hearers were too much astonished 
to reply. 

“ It is even so,” continued he. “ To-morrow I leave for 
dear old England, and, as I have been but too often assured 
of your wishes, it is not my intention ever to return. So, give 
yourselves up to your rejoicing,” added he, with a bitter 
smile, “ for I seek another home and a fairer bride. But let 
me have one look at the children before I go.” 

“ Surely, Charles,” exclaimed the pure-minded wife, » you 
will take measures for a divorce before you wed another.” 

“ Ha ! ha I ha ! jealous, as true as I live ! I always thought 
you liked me, in spite of all you said. Come, now, you look 
so charming, I’ve a good mind to let the old man die, and 
stay here with you, you feel so bad about my going away. I 
know you do — ha ! ha ! ha ! that was capital ! ” 

“ You misunderstood me, Charles,” replied Anna; « I did 
not express any wish for you to stay, nor do I feel any. That 


ANNA tiLAYTON. 


69 




you -will leave me to enjoy what little peace I can, with my 
children and friends, is, and has been, my greatest wish. But 
to trample on the laws of God and man is dreadful.” 

“ Well said, my little preacher,” said he, tauntingly, for 
he was vexed at her reply; “ but have you yet to learn that 
our most holy church can absolve her sons from a marriage 
contracted with a heretic ? I declare, what beauties ! ” ex- 
claimed he, as Susan brought in the baby, with Charlie cling- 
ing to her dress. “ Come here, Charlie, and kiss me, for I 
am going away off,” said he, holding out his hand. 

“ I shan’t go near you ! — I don’t love you, ’cause you are 
a naughty papa, and I ’m glad you ’re going away ! ” shouted 
the little fellow, as he ran out of the room. 

“ Very well, I see how he has been trained! ” and bitter- 
ness deep and strong sprang into the heart that had hitherto 
been merely cold and worldly. 

No forced compliments were uttered, and the gates of this 
Eden closed upon the departure of one who had well-nigh 
destroyed its happiness ; as did those of Paradise shut out 
the fallen beings who had forfeited all its bliss. Would that 
it had I? sen, as with them, for ever and ever ! 


OHAPTEE IX. 


‘You Jesuits are strong in a thousand materials — money, credit, 
intrigue — all carnal weapons ; but you are weak in God.” 

Michelet. 

Our stratagems 

Must branch forth into manifold deceits, 

Endless devices, bottomless conclusions.” 

Not many miles distant from Beechgrove, surrounded on 
all sides, save one, by a dense forest, whose impenetrable gloom 
was never pierced but for deeds of darkness, stood an ancient 
chateau, once the residence of an unfortunate nobleman, who, 
wearied and disgusted with life’s realities, bequeathed all his 
noble domains to the church, and sunk himself into the obscur- 
ity of a monastic life. This chateau, with the additional 
appendages of a cloister and chapel, had been opeupied 
several years as a summer residence by the priestly function- 
aries of the holy mother church, the cloister immuring with- 
in its solid walls those who, either by compulsion or choice, 
crucified themselves to the world in their ascetic occupations. 

In a sumptuously furnished room of this princely residence, 
near a table, on which were scattered various papers and 
implements for writing, sat two persons in earnest discussion. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


71 


At length one of them rose, and, with a gesture of impatience, 
exclaimed, 

“ I have done my utmost to persuade him, but he still 
clings to the hope that that foolish son of his will return ; and 
then — a truce to all we can do ! ” snapping his fingers. 

“ One trial' more, my good Alphonso,” replied the other, 
familiarly patting his shoulder ; “ here is the letter which will 
settle the matter with him, if you manage right.” 

“ Yes, but suppose that good-for-nothing fellow shendd take 
it into his head to come just in time to betray us ? ” queried 
he. 

“ Gret but that writing signed,” returned his companion, 
with decision, the rest is easily accomplished. Alphonso 
Bernaldi is not unused to administering medicines to the sick,” 
continued he, significantly. 

“ It shall be done, holy father,” replied Bernaldi, retiring. 

The morning sun, with its life-invigorating, soul-inspiring 
beams, waking anew the joyous notes of the forest songster, 
and brightening into fresh existence all animate and inanimate 
nature, tried in vain to cheer with one radiant glance the 
lonely apartment of sickness and sufiering. Its light shone 
but faintly through the crimson draperies so arranged as to 
exclude every ray,, and barely sufficed to reveal to the mute 
nurse the different objects within her room. 

“ Has Charles come ? ” again echoed, in feeble tones, from 
the bed. 

“ Your son has not arrived, and I cannot flatter you with 
any false hopes of ever seeing him again,” replied the nurse, 
who l^d received her instructions. 


72 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ It must have been a dream, then,” tremulously added 
he, “ but I thought Charles came and asked my forgiveness, 
and we were reconciled. I wish he would come ! ” 

“ If all your friends had deserted you as your son has. Sir 
William, you would have reason to discard them. It is but 
a poor return for all their kindness and attention to mourn 
thus for one who does not wish or deserve your notice,” an- 
swered the cunning Jesuit. 

“ I don’t know but you are right,” said he, with a sigh, 
“ but it seems to me one’s own son ought to be nearer than 
strangers.” 

“Not if that son proves himself utterly heartless and 
worthless,” she replied. “ To every good Catholic the inter- 
ests of his church aught to be dearer than all others ; and if, 
in addition to this ohligatwn^ your own son forsakes you for 
the company of heretics, and refuses to return to you, how can 
you excuse yourself to that church which has so tenderly 
cared for your soul? Bather should you rejoice that the 
Blessed Virgin will accept your sacrifice, and save you from 
the horrors of purgatory,” added she, devoutly crossing 
herself. 

“ If Charles don’t come to-day, 1 will delay no longer,” 
faintly uttered the sick man, as though loth to pronounce 
the words that would cut off even such a disobedient son from 
his heritage. 

“ Even such a delay may prove fatal to your soul,” sol- 
emnly responded the nurse. 

The door was noiselessly unclosed, and, with stealthy steps, 
as a tiger tracks her prey, did Bernaldi glide to the bedside 
of his intended victim. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


73 


“ The morning is bright and clear, my dear Sir William ; I 
trust you feel its effects in renewed strength ; ” and he took 
the feeble, emaciated hand within his own, with well-affected 
interest and concern. 

“ In truth, good father, I have had but a sorry night of it. 
The little sleep I got was so disturbed by strange dreams, 
that I think it has made me weaker than before,” replied the 
invalid. 

“ I hope you do not allow your mind to be disturbed by the 
undutiful conduct of your son,” said the priest. 

“ Charles has caused me much trouble, I know ; but, if he 
would come to me now, and cheer what little life I have left, I 
would forgive all.” 

“ I grieve to find your heart thus clinging to earthly ob- 
jects,” whined Bernaldi. “I hoped, after our conversation 
yesterday, you would divest yourself of all these attachments, 
and be fitted to receive the holy sacrament, without which 
you cannot die in peace.” 

“ Must I give up my son ? ” cried the father, looking ear- 
nestly at his confessor. 

“ Choose ye between ymr own salvation and your earthly 
lusts,” responded he. ‘^ut I had nearly forgotten,” he 
added, taking a letter from his pocket, — “ this may help you 
to a decision.” 

“ Is it from Charles ? ” Sir William eagerly inquired, as 
he grasped the letter ; “ give me my glasses, that I may read 
myself what he says.” 

The nurse gently raised his wan and emaciated form, and, 
supporting him on either side with pillows, sat in silence near 
him, while with watchful eye and secret satisfaction the 

7 


74 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


priestly confessor noted each expression of agony as it flitted 
over the face of his dupe. 

“ It is enough,” at length exclaimed the father, in despair, 
casting from him the letter, which Bernaldi quickly concealed ; 
“ I am ready to give up all now. Gro, my good Marguerite, 
and bring me a reviving draught ; and do you, holy father, 
prepare me for the sacrament, for I feel that I cannot long 
survive this.” 

Concealing his exultation, the father-confessor meekly 
replied, 

“Will you now prove your sincerity and devotion to the 
Blessed Virgin, who thus opens her arms to receive you into 
her most holy communion, as she will receive the souls of the 
faithful at last ? ” As he spoke he drew from his pocket a 
paper, which he unfolded before the sick man. 

“ Explain to me once more its contents,” said Sir William, 
waving his hand towards the paper. 

“ It is, merely, that at Lady Duncan’s decease your prop- 
erty shall be kept from those vile heretics to whom your son 
clings, and devoted to the holy purposes of the only true, the 
Catholic church,” replied the craft^^riest. 

“ Then — I — will — sign — it ! feebly gasped the sufferer, 
as he sank fainting upon his bed. 

“ Curse the old fool ! ” muttered Bernaldi, as all their efforts 
to restore consciousness seemed for some moments unsuc- 
cessful ; “a moment later, and it ’s little I would have done 
to bring back his worthless life ! But I ’m not to be foiled 
thus ! I ’ll have it out of you yet, you miserable old dotard ! ” 
and he ground his teeth with ill-concealed vexation. 

“Do not be alarmed, my dear lady,” said the sycophantic 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


75 


priest, as Lady Duncan hastily entered the room, startled by 
the servant’s report. “ Sir William has only fainted ; see, he 
is already reviving,” he added, as, with a deep sigh, the patient 
slowly unclosed his eyes and gazed around. 

At that moment the sound of carriage-wheels approaching 
through the broad entrance to Beechgrove caught the quick 
ear of Bernaldi, and caused the blood to leap wildly through 
his veins. Suppose his prey should be snatched from him at 
the very moment when his success seemed certain . The 
thought maddened his brain, as he stepped to the window to 
conceal his agitation. The sight that met his eye from the 
court-yard below did not serve to lessen it, and, with a mighty 
effort to suppress his fury, he said, in a low voice, to Lady 
Duncan, 

“ I would speak with you, for a moment, in the ante-room.” 

“ Your son has just arrived,” said he, as he closed the door 
behind him, “ and I wish to caution you against sudden or 
violent agitation on the part of Sir William. Its effects 
would probably be fatal, after his recent exhaustion. I would 
suggest that your son’s return be kept from him till I have 
endeavored to prepare ^ mind for it, which I will do this 
afternoon.” 

“ Thank you, good father ! ” replied Lady Duncan, with 
unwonted feeling, as she hastened to meet her son. 

“ Remember — eyes and ears open. Marguerite ! ” whispered 
Bernaldi, as he passed down the private stairway, and quickly 
threaded his way to the chateau. 

“ Deo gratias ! ” exclaimed the bishop. 

“ Deo gratias, indeed ! ” returned Bernaldi, bitterly, all his 


70 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


restrained passion bursting forth in incoherent words and 
violent gesticulations. 

“ For this unseemly conduct you should do heavy penance ! 
and the bishop spoke sternly to the raving priest. 

“ And penance I would do, with a good will, but what ’ll 
that avail me now ? ” said Bernaldi. “ Here have I labored 
these four or five years, but to be thwarted at the last 
moment ! ” 

“ But the reward^ my good Alphonso — the reward is suf- 
ficient for even many more years of trial,” soothingly added the 
bishop. 

“ Why taunt me with that now,” retorted the priest, 
“ when all hopes of it must be dashed? ” 

“ Not so fast, my friend,” answered his reverence ; “ though 
I had no reason to doubt the successful issue of our last plan, 
I have yet another in reserve, which mmt accomplish our holy 
object.” 

“ What is it ? ” Bernaldi asked, brightening. 

“ First, I will order lunch,” said he, ringing a small silver 
bell ; you need refreshment after your long walk.” 

The savory and delicious viand|^pread before them, of 
which they both heartily partook, had no little influence in 
raising Bernaldi’s spirits ; and he exclaimed, as they concluded 
their repast, 

“Now, holy father, we will to business ; your excellent wine 
has restored me to myself, which that infernal old fool had 
well-nigh driven out of me.” 

“ Let him die and rot in his grave ! ” impatiently exclaimed 
the bishop ; “ we will yet outwit them all ! ” 

“’T would be strange, indeed, if your reverence’s wisdom 


ANNACtAYTON 77 

and experience were not sufficient to outwit a dozen such 
brainless fellows as Charles Duncan.” 

“To say nothing of your own shrewdness and cunning, 
Bernaldi,” added the former, laughingly. 

“ J ust give me one more chance, good father, and I defy 
all the powers above and below to thwart me again ! ” 

“ But that does n’t include the power of woman, which you 
know was the cause of your defeat before,” sneeringly replied 
the bishop. 

“ If ever she or her miserable old father crosses my path 
again,” returned Bernaldi, “ let them take heed ; for, as I live, 
they shall feel my vengeance ! ” 

“ Bight glad am I, Alphonso, to hear you say that ; for the 
plan I have to propose will, if I mistake not, be the greatest 
torture you could inflict upon those vile heretics.” 

“ Then I ’m your man,” said the priest. “ But what is it ? ” 

The bishop drew nearer his companion, and in a voice 
scarcely audible, as though fearful that the very walls would 
hear, unfolded a plot which even the cold-blooded Bernaldi 
could scarcely listen to without shuddering. 

“What say you now^ Alphonso ? ” asked he, as he con- 
cluded. 

“ I say,” replied his companion, while a gleam of malicious 
satisfaction crossed his Jesuitical face — “I say that nothing 
would suit me better, if the thing can be done.” 

“Our church allows no ifs in its service, and least of all 
should we expect one from you,” haughtily answered the 
bishop. 

“Be it so, then, good father; I will do my part to your 
entire satisfaction, I venture to say.” 

7 * 


78 


-ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ If you d3, you will most assuredly receive your promised 
reward,” he replied. 


“ Where am I ? where have I been ? what have I done ? ” 
cried, in piteous tones, the poor sufferer, as consciousness 
returned, and with it a sense of some deep wrong committed. 
“ Did n’t somebody say Charles had come, just as I signed 
the deed which made him a beggar ? ” 

“ No, Sir William,” said Marguerite, stepping softly to his 
bedside, “ no one has spoken. You must have had strange 
dreams to suppose any one wished you to wrong your son. 
Here is your medicine ; it is a little past the time, but I did 
not like to disturb your sleep to give it to you before.” 

“ Then I have been asleep,” said he, looking round confus- 
edly; “I thought Father Bernaldi was here, and made me 
* sign some paper ; and then a hideous demon appeared before 
me, and said I had beggared my boy.” 

“These dreams indicate a higher fever,” said she, as she 
examined his pulse and then took from a small drawer a 
potent sleeping.powder, which she mixed with his medicine. 
“ Here, Sir William.” ♦ 

The patient gazed wildly at her, aa if half oonsoious of her 
treachery, but, without another word, awallowed the draught, 
and sank back again on his bed. 

“ That ’ll do for you, old fellow,” whispered she to herself, 
“ till I know what next to do ; it is nearly time he should bo 
here.” 


« Come, now, don’t, mother ! ” petulantly exclaimed Charles, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


79 


** 1 ’ve had fuss and trouble enough, the Lord knows, since I 
went away ^ ” 

“Well,” persisted Lady Duncan, “we could have excused 
anything rather than such a mesalliance ; your father has 
never been the same man since the day he heard of it.” 

“ My father was never so fond of me when I was at home ! * 
said he. 

“ O, well, you know his honor, the honor of the whole 
family, must be affected by such a course. We had hoped 
that you would select a lady of noble birth to share your 
future wealth.” 

“ And it is n’t too late now,” replied he, carelessly ; “ a 
simple liaison in America is no hindrance to a marriage 
here.” 

“ Was that all, Charles ? I thought you were really 
married to that low-born girl.” 

“ And suppose I was, mother ? You can’t believe I ever 
had the slightest idea of bringing her here as my wife ! 
You know, as well as I, that the priest can absolve any con- 
tract with a heretic. I should have died with the blues if I 
had n’t had something to amuse me there.” 

“ But the children, Charles ? ” 

“ Are just the prettiest ones you ever saw,” — and there 
was a little softening about his heart, — “but they will be 
well taken care of, I know.” 

“ Well, my good Blarguerite,” said Lady Duncan, as the 
former entered the room, “ how is Sir William now ? ” 

“ Sir William is very ill,” replied the nurse ; “ his mmd 
is wandering, and he is evidently much worse.” 

“ Then I will go to him directly,” said' Charles, rising. 


80 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Alas, sir ! ” — and Marguerite shook her head, sadly, — 
he would not recognize you now. After a few hours of 
undisturbed rest, which Dr. Murray says is absolutely neces- 
sary for him, he may be much better. I will inform you the 
first moment it is safe for you to see him ; ” and she withdrew 
as noiselessly as she had entered. 

“ Marguerite is a faithful creature,” remarked Lady Dun- 
can ; “ she could not nurse your father more tenderly if he 
were her own ; and she never seems weary with watching him.” 

“ Where did she come from ? ” asked Charles. 

“ She was nursing among the nobility, when Father Ber- 
naldi met her, and persuaded her to come to us. I half fancy 
Dr. Murray don’t like her ; but I have perfect confidence in 
her.” 

“ Father Bernaldi ! ” repeated Charles ; “ then he is about 
here now. I have n’t seen him since we parted in a miff, and 
he came off and left me.” 

“ He speaks of you with great affection,” replied his 
mother, “ and blames you no more than all your friends do.” 

“ I don’t care a farthing for his affection or censure,” said 
Charles, as he rose to go out and survey grounds soon to be 
his own. 

With quick and stealthy steps, Bernaldi was hastening 
towards Beechgrove, bitter hatred rankling in his heart, and 
burning for revenge, when he perceived Charles leisurely 
strolling around, with the air of a lordly possessor. Serpent- 
like, he glided circuitously through the elysian paths of this 
home Eden, mingling with its pure fragrance the poisonous 
exhalations of his own corrupt heart, as he vowed the deep- 
est, deadliest enmity to him who had twice bafided lys wicked 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


81 


designs. Cautiously avoiding observation, he gained the side- 
door, which to him, was ever accessible, and, rapidly ascend- 
ing the private stairway, noiselessly entered the room, to 
which none save himself was admitted. 

“ How now. Marguerite ! ” whispered he ; « how long has 
he slept thus ? ” 

“ He revived a few moments after you left,” replied she, 
in the same tone ; “ but I found he was beginning to be 
troublesome, so I gave him one of your powders, and he has 
slept ever since.” 

“ Yery well, very well; see that he wakes no morel I 
want none of his fancies put into that young villain’s head. 
Remember, the other powder, — a fit of apoplexy, or any 
such thing, you know, will do,” and he nodded most signifi- 
cantly. 

“ As you say, holy father,” replied the heartless nurse. 

For more than an hour Charles wandered through scenes 
familiar to his youth, but now awakening within him a new 
sense of their grandeur and beauty. With the pure and unsul- 
lied glories of nature he had had but little acquaintance, and 
less sympathy, in his wild career ; and, as they now broke 
upon him in rare and unequalled perfection, he felt an unde- 
fined consciousness of his own inferiority. Throwing himself 
listlessly upon a rustic bench, near which the falling waters 
were dancing merrily to the notes of the nightingale, — 
the swelling chorus of the feathered orchestra filling the air 
with heaven’s music, — he exclaimed, thinking aloud : 

“ ’T would be passing strange if a man can’t live happily in 
such a place as this. Give me a few choice companions, and 


'is- 


82 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


it little I care if I never leave it again. Phil Manning 
shan’t be on3, though ; he ’s too deep for me ; and, besides, 
he ’s got enough out of me already.” 

“ Charles, my geod fellow, how are you ? ” cried a voice 
behind him, as a hand was familiarly laid on his shoulder. 
“ Now will this dull place wake up to life again, I hope ; ” 
and Father Bernaldi greeted cordially his former com- 
panion. 

“ I see you have forgotten our indifferent parting,” replied 
Charles ; “ so you are right welcome, good father.” 

“ I know how to excuse youthful follies and indiscretions,” 
— and the priest assumed one of his blandest smiles, — “ though 
it may be my duty to check them, if possible. But I have 
a thousand questions to ask you,” added he, as he took the 
proffered seat near Charles. 

“ To which I shall return only one answer,” replied Charles, 
laughing; “ so, don’t bother me with any of your foreign 
remembrances. I ’ve left them all behind me, and now I ’m 
going to take a fresh start in life. If you and I are to be 
future friends, — for which I am willing enough, — everything 
pertaining to my life abroad must be forgotten. You under- 
stand, eh ? ” 

“ I should be dull, indeed,” Bernaldi smilingly answered, 
“not to comprehend your meaning. But just satisfy my 
curiosity on one or two points, and hereafter my silence is 
pledged. ’ 

Most artfully did he then draw from Charles all the inform- 
ation he wished ; and with intense satisfaction he gathered 
from him the pal:ticulars of Charles’ farewell visit, which had 


anna CLAYTON. 


83 


so embittered Mm towards his lovely wife, and given him a 
momentary desire for revenge. 

“ There, now,” said Charles, as he concluded, » I Ve told 
you more than I ever meant to, and blast me if ever I 
open my lips again about that cursed pale-faced woman ! ” 

But Bernaldi had heard enough to convince him that the 
dark and daring plot suggested to him a few hours before 
was feasible, and that Charles himself was the fittest instru- 
ment to accomplish it. His eager delight did not escape the 
notice of Charles, who, however, in his vanity, attributed it 
to the joy of meeting him again, and who reproached himself 
for his former suspicions of this faithful friend. With his 
arm affectionately linked in that of Bernaldi, in restored 
confidence, they sauntered slowly along, the latter charming 
him with his unwonted vivacity, and with humorous descrip- 
tions of scenes which had occurred during his absence. Thus 
had they passed a much longer time than either was aware 
of, when, as they approached the house, they perceived an 
unusual commotion, — servants, with frightened looks and pale 
faces, running hither and thither ; and Lady Duncan, with 
blanched cheek and uplifted arms, urging the swift messen- 
ger, who dashed out of the yard and out of sight while she 
was yet speaking. 

“ My father must be worse ! ” exclaimed Charles, as he 
ran, with trembling steps, towards his mother. 

“ 0, master Charles ! ” cried the usually placid nurse, 
wringing her hands, in great agitation, as she rushed forth to 
meet him, “ why were ypu not here when your poor father 
called so piteously for you ? It almost broke my heart to 
hear him ! ” And, 


84 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Before her face her^ handkerchief she spread. 

To hide the flood of tears she did not shed.” 

Poor Charles could hear no more, as with rapid strides ho 
passed them, and sank upon his knees at his father’s bedside. 

“ Too late ! too late ! ” murmured he, grasping the cold 
and lifeless hand, which but a few moments since was stretched 
forth convulsively, seeking to rest itself upon his head in 
paternal blessings. 


CHAPTER X. 


But of this be sure. 

To do aught good will never be our task, 

But ever to do ill our sole delight.” 

Miltow. 

Beechgrove seemed shrouded with a gloomy pall of dark- 
ness. Its late master had been consigned, with great pomp 
and pageantry, to his last resting-place ; and costly masses for 
the repose of his soul were daily repeated in the churches far 
and near, to the entire satisfaction of their lucre-loving priests. 
The necessary forms of law had been duly attended to, and 
Charles was now the acknowledged possessor of the princely 
fortune and estates of the late Sir William. Everything 
wore a mournful aspect in and about the house; even the 
very birds seemed to nod and whisper to each other in the 
ominous silence reigning everywhere. Lady Duncan, ab- 
sorbed in her selfish grief and widow’s weeds, gave scarcely 
a passing thought to aught else ; Marguerite, the tender 
nurse, had gone on other missions of mercy, and Charles was 
wearied with the dull and monotonous life he was forced to 
lead. Rising early, one morning, he mounted his fleetest 
horse, and, with a gesture of impatience spurring him on, he 
checked not his speed till Beechgrove and its surrounding 
8 


86 


ANNA CLATTON. 


beauties were left far behind him. His uncurbed spirit could 
no longer endure the restraint imposed upon him in his own 
home by the customary forms of mourning, and he deter- 
mined to break away from them all, and for a few days, at 
least, enjoy a little of what he called life. His father’s death 
had affected him more than he thought it possible for any- 
thing to dO; and he was impatient to shake off his gloomy 
feelings, and mingle again with the gay world. 

The region where he now found himself was new to him, 
and he suffered his noble steed to guide him whithersoever he 
would, while his own thoughts were busily employed plan- 
ning future scenes of pleasure. Suddenly a wild shriek rang 
through the air, and in the same instant came dashing madly 
on, plunging and rearing with every bound, a splendid white 
charger, bearing his almost unconscious burden crouching upon 
his back. Quick as thought Charles leaped from his saddle, 
and, seizing the bridle-rein, which hung loosely from the char- 
ger’s neck, he checked him with such violence as brought them 
all to the ground together. Pale with fear and affright, the 
lady instantly sprang to her feet, and, soothing the equally 
terrified animal, saw, to her consternation, that her deliverer 
had fallen insensible, nearly crushed with the weight of horse 
and rider, which had both come upon him. Vainly calling, in 
her terror, for assistance, she flew to a spring near by, and 
with its cool, refreshing waters laved the brow of him who 
had so nearly sacrificed his own life in saving hers. 

Who that had, the evening previous, seen the proud and 
haughty Lady Emilie He Vere, the acknowledged belle of 
the gay season, surrounded with noble suitors, turning from 
them all with indifference, till in their vexation they pro- 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


87 


nounced her as heartless as she was beautiful, could have 
recognized the same being in the earnest, anxious expression 
of the lovely face, bending over the form of her still uncon- 
scious and unknown companion ? Little does the aristocratic 
maiden herself imagine that each wild throb of her heart, as 
she gazes with intense earnestness upon the handsome features 
of her heroic preserver, is but the response of a new-born joy 
hidden within its depths. 

Scarely five minutes had elapsed when the welcome sound 
of advancing horsemen apprised Lady Emilie that assistance 
was at hand ; and, looking up, she joyfully discovered her 
father and his faithful groom rapidly approaching in pursuit 
of her. Their vigorous exertions to restore consciousness 
were soon rewarded by a deep groan from the injured man, 
who slowly unclosed his eyes, fixed them for a moment upon 
the fair face near him, and again relapsed into utter oblivion. 

“ He must have been internally injured,” said Lord He 
Yere, as his daughter concluded her narrative of the sad 
accident. “It is necessary that he should receive immediate 
attention. Make all possible haste, John, in getting the car- 
riage, and in the mean time let a surgeon be summoned.” 

To Ravenswood, the delightful country residence of Lord 
He Vere, was the still insensible stranger carefully conveyed, 
and laid upon its softest bed. The powerful and efficient 
treatment of their family physician soon restored life and 
animation ; and Charles looked around the sumptuous apart- 
ment, and upon the strange faces, with a bewildered air. 

“ It were better for you to make no unnecessary effort,” 
said the physician, mildly, as Charles attempted to rise. 
“You have been injured, though we scarcely yet know to 


88 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


what extent, and we may be obliged to detain you as our 
prisoner for a few days.” 

Charles rubbed his eyes in amazement; while a vague, in- 
distinct recollection of his recent adventure seemed to dawn 
slowly upon him. 

“ Where am I ? ” at length he asked. 

“ Under the roof of one who will never be able to repay 
his debt to you ! ” exclaimed Lord De Vere, coming forward 
and taking his hand. 

The puzzled look again returned to Charles’ face, as he 
tried to comprehend his lordship’s reply. 

“ Emilie, my daughter,” said the latter, opening the door 
into an adjoining room, “ he has revived. Come in ; you can 
better explain than I.” 

Blushing with maidenly confusion, the usually self-possessed 
Lady Emilie stepped softly to his side, and timidly uttered her 
gratitude for her preservation. 

Charles was awake now, as the presence of the fair eques- 
trian recalled the whole scene vividly to his mind. 

“ I have done nothing worthy of your thanks, fair lady,” 
replied he, “ though it is sweet to receive them.” And he 
gazed admiringly into the beautiful face of the proud lady. 

“ W^e have yet to learn the name of your self-sacrificing 
hero,” said Lord De Vere, with significant glances, to his 
daughter. 

“ I trust the confusion of my brain will be a sufficient 
apology, sir,” said Charles, handing him a eard. 

« Charles Duncan ! What, the son of my old friend Sir 
William, recently deceased ? ” 

The same, sir,” answered Charles. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


89 


“ Then are you iudeed doubly welcome,” exclaimed Lord 
De Yere. “ It needs no ceremony to acquaint you with my 
daughter, Lady Emilie De Yere, as you have already so favor- 
ably introduced yourself.” 

“ I see I must, however unwillingly, interpose,” said the 
physician, interrupting them. “ But it will be necessary to 
keep Sir Charles perfectly quiet, for a few days, at least.” 

“Do you find him seriously injured?” Lord De Yere 
inquired, with much interest, aside. 

“ I fear his brain is seriously affected. Indeed, I should 
not be surprised if he is delirious to-night ; rest and quiet 
are most essential in his case.” 

“ Give him all the attention in your power, doctor. His 
father was an old friend of mine, and this was his only child. 
He has been abroad the last few years, and but lately re- 
turned ; so I have never seen him till now. Strange that we 
should have met in such a manner ! ” added Lord De Yere, 
musingly. 

The physician’s prediction was fully verified, as Charles lay 
restlessly moaning upon his bed, all unconscious of the anxious 
care with which he was tenderly nursed, or the deep interest, 
but too plainly revealed, with which one watched for his 
returning reason. 

Lord De Yere well knew how futile would be any attempt 
to oppose or reason with his daughter ; and therefore Emilie 
was, as she had ever been, left to her own guidance. Deserting 
the gay scenes where she had shone so brilliantly, but for 
which she had suddenly lost all relish, and assiduously devot- 
ing herself to him who had so daringly saved her life. Lady 
Emilie persuaded herself that she was but exercising the rites 
8 ^ 


90 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


of good English hospitality. Not so thought the sagacious 
physician, whose been glance often caused the crimson blush 
to mantle her cheek with some unwonted^emotion. Not so 
thought her haughty father, as, with increasing solicitude, he 
saw her cheek grow pale, and her steps less light, save in the 
presence of their guest. 

Lady Emilie was the last to discover that other emotions 
than gratitude and mere friendship prompted her to forego 
all her former pleasures, that she might sit by the side, or 
guide the feeble steps, of the convalescent. When, however, 
the humiliating truth flashed upon her that she had given 
her heart unasked, pride came to her rescue, and in a calm, 
self-possessed manner, she announced to her father, in Charles* 
presence, that she must fulfil an engagement in the city, and 
should depart thither immediately. True to her resolution, 
she very kindly and courteously bade adieu to Charles, and 
hastened away, that none might see the wild throbbings 
beneath that cold exterior. 


“ My dear Charles,” said Father Bernaldi, a few days 
after his return to Beechgrove, “ you seem gloomy and de- 
pressed, and yet you will not confide in an old friend, who, 
you know, is devoted to your interests and happiness. What 
can I do for you ? ” 

“ To tell you the truth, good father, I don’t know what 
ails me. I ’m lonely and miserable, that ’s all ; it ’s so con- 
founded dull here ! ” 

“ But it is in your power to make it more cheerful.” 

“ How ? ” asked Charles. 

“ Nothing easier,” answered Bernaldi, with a moaning 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


. 91 

smile ; “ would not Beechgrove, and its master too, rejoice 
in the bright and beautiftd presence of a fair and presiding 
spirit?” 

“Speak out plainly, father,” said Charles, more pleased 
than he cared to show ; “ you talk in riddles.” 

“ I should not wish to offend you, Charles,” he answered, 
meekly, “ but your happiness lies so near my heart, ’t would 
be strange, indeed,* if aught affecting you escape my notice.” 

“ Well, and what then? ” impatiently added Charles. 

“ Nothing ; only, if these faithful eyes and ears do not 
deceive me, a lady of noble birth, whose hand is coveted by 
the rich and powerful, would not disdain to become the Eve 
in this paradise.” 

“ You mean Lady Emilie, I suppose,” replied Charles. 

“ The same,” said Bernaldi, keenly eying him. 

“ She has no other feeling for me than gratitude, I assure 
you,” said Charles, in a tone which conveyed a different 
hope. 

“ That is all a delusion, my dear sir ; Lady Emilie loves 
you.” 

Charles eagerly started from his seat with delight. “ Prove 
that to me, good father, and you shall not lose your re- 
ward.” 

“ I cmld give you other proof than my word,” returned 
Bernaldi ; “ but it would avail you nothing, as you are at 
present situated.” 

“ I understand you but too well,” said Charles, with a 
sigh; “ yet I always supposed the church had power to annul 
that contract.” 

“ So she has, and to those who are true to her interests 


92 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


the bishop often grants such absolution ; but you must confess 
you have not been a very devoted follower.” 

“ If you mean,” interrupted Charles, “ that I have not 
given money enough, why, set your own price, but get me 
released from that hateful marriage.” 

“ The bishop only can do that,” replied Bernaldi, “ and I 
would advise you to seek him without delay.” 

Little need had Charles of such advice, for his impetuous 
nature could bear no suspense ; and, as the wary priest rightly 
divined, he suffered not many days to elapse ere he found 
himself in the presence of one who held such power over his 
future destiny. The secrets of that confessional we cannot 
unveil ; but Charles returned to his home in deep thought, 
and evident agitation. The ordeal he must pass was sur- 
rounded with difficulties, perhaps impossibilities, which he 
might never be able to overcome \ certain it was, that without 
his faithful Bernaldi he could do nothing ; so, at least, he felt, 
and rightly too. 

“ It is, as you say, a perilous undertaking,” Bernaldi 
remarked, after Charles had disclosed to him the conditions 
upon which alone the bishop would grant his wish ; “ he might 
almost as well have refused you at once. And yet, it would 
be the best thing for you, if you have the courage to brave it 
through. I scarcely know how to advise you,” he added, 
with a puzzled air, “ but of one thing you may be sure ; what- 
ever you do, you may command your best friend to the extent 
of his abilities.” 

“Thank you a thousand times, most excellent father!” ex- 
claimed Charles ; “ were it not for my trust in you, I could 
not for a moment hope for success.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


93 


“ You see,” reasoned Bernaldi, “ there is no other waj for 
you to obtain Lady Emilie ; for, even had the holy father 
annulled the marriage, those children would be your legal 
•heirs, and their friends, you may depend, would not be slow 
in proclaiming it. But, if you just take them into your own 
care, as you ought, and place them securely within the 
church, you not only insure their salvation, but all trouble- 
some discoveries by the haughty Lord de Vere will be 
avoided. I know him too well to believe he would ever con- 
sent to give his daughter to one who had stooped to a connec- 
tion with a low-born heretic. Your desired success can only 
be gained by their entire ignorance of any such ties. To 
them those children must be as though they were not ; and, 
when once you have given them to the church, they are no 
longer yours, and you can say truly (should occasion re- 
quire) that you have neither wife nor child. You under- 
stand ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Charles, hesitatingly, “ I see ; but you are 
supposing, all the time, that the thing is accomplished, while 
my only trouble is how to do it. If I was more sure of Lady 
Emilie, I believe I should try, with your help ; but I can tell 
you it will be a hard task.” 

“ Perhaps so ; but I think we can plan it so that it will 
not be so difficult as you imagine.” 

“ I ’ll leave all the planning to you, good father, while I go 
to Ravenswood ; and if Lady Emilie consents to share with 
me the beauties of Beechgrove, I ’d go to the world’s end* and 
work impossibilities; rather than lose her ” 


CHAPTER XI. 


«« Trained to duplicity and crime, they are daring, unscrupulous, un- 
relenting ; and, to convert fortunes to their use, they decoy the simple, 
murder the obnoxious, rob households, torture the intractable, and trust 
to impenetrable dungeons to conceal those who would witness against 
them. Thus has Rome perpetuated her wealth and power.” 

“ I REALLY think, Anna,” said Mrs. Clayton, gazing fondly 
on her daughter, “ that you have yet many years of happi- 
ness before you. Your tell-tale face, if not so sunny as when 
you were my pupil, has of late been growing more cheerful.” 

“ Who can live beneath the sun’s rays, and not feel their 
genial influence? ” replied Anna, with a loving smile. “ Cold, 
indeed, would be the heart that did not glow and expand in 
the bright sunshine of a mother’s love — and mch a mother ! ” 
she added, in a low voice of tenderness. 

“ Bless you, my child ! ” and a tear dimmed the soft hazel 
eye ; “ it needed not such trials as yours to bind you more 
closely to my heart. But see — there comes Susan with the 
baby; and Charlie is skipping merrily along, as though the 
world were all flowers and sunshine.” 

“ God grant it may be to him ! ” breathed Anna, with a 
sigh, which was drowned in the noisy glee of the beautiful 
boy, as he came bounding into his mother’s lap. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


95 


“ O, mamma ! ” cried he, “ we ’ve been to see Aunt Bessie’s 
baby, and she ’s most as pretty as my own little sister — not 
quite, though and he shook his head knowingly, as he 
caught a glimpse of the chubby, dimpled face his little heart 
worshipped. 

“ What did Aunt Bessie say to you, Charlie ? ” 

“ She seems as fond of the children,” said Susan, coming 
forward, “ as if they were her own. I thought she would 
never stop kissing them. She wished me to tell you, ma’am, 
that her baby was christened last Sunday, and they call her 
Anna, for you.” 

“ Dear Bessie ! ” exclaimed Anna, while the tears gathered 
as she thought of the wicked farce mumbled over her own 
children, “ she deserves all her blessings.” 

“ That ’s pretty much what she said about you, ma’am,” 
replied Susan, proudly. “ When she was kissing the children 
she said you deserved such treasures, for the sweetness with 
which you bore your misfortunes ; those are her very words, 
ma’am.” 

“ My misfortunes, as she terms them,” smilingly remarked 
Anna, turning to Mrs. Clayton, “ have seemed much lighter 
since they were softened by the sympathy of such warm 
hearts.” 

“ Would that you had found a more sure support, dear 
Anna ! ” was Mrs. Clayton’s only answer. 


The two little cherubs had sunk into the dreamless sleep 
of innocence, while the young mother still kept her watchful 
vigils near them. Memories of the past, clothed with life, 


9G 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


came thronging with fearful distinctness about ter. Shudder- 
inglj she gazed, as the dark phantoms, one by one, came flit- 
ting by in their startling, life-like reality ; and with a shriek 
she recoiled from the black, fathomless abyss which seemed 
opening before her. The vision passed away, and naught but 
the tiny forms of the sweet sleepers met her terrified gaze, as 
she tremblingly looked around. 

“ What a frightful dream I have had ! ” whispered she, as, 
with an undefined fear of coming evil, she crept softly to the 
side of her treasures, and nestled them within her own arms. 
Alas for thee, fond mother ! the bitterness of death itself 
would be sweet in comparison with the anguish that must 
wring thy heart, ere thou wilt learn to seek a stronger arm 
than thine own for the protection of these defenceless ones ! 

“ Mamma, do see ! ” cried little Charlie, as he pointed 
with ecstasy to the still sleeping baby, whose flaxen ringlets 
were flooded with the morning’s beams, and encircled her fairy 
brow like a crown of glory. “ Is n’t that the way angels look, 
mamma ? ” 

Anna smiled as she roused from her heavy sleep. “Yes, 
darling, only little Myrtie is a thousand times more dear ; 
for we can take her in our arms and kiss her, and feel that 
she belongs to us.” 

“ But Susan says she don’t belong to us, mamma; she told 
me yesterday that Cod only gave us the baby to love and 
take care of, till he called her back to heaven. Is n’t that too 
bad, mamma ? ” 

“But Susan is right, dear,” said his mother; and again 
the dark foreboding of evil fell upon her heart at the 
possibility of this precious trust being recalled by the Giver. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


97 


Susan’s gentle knoek at the door was quickly answered by 
the bright boy, who sprang into her arms for his usual morn- 
ing kiss, but drew back when he saw her face red and swollen 
with weeping. 

“ Why, Susan, what has happened ? ” exclaimed Anna, 
as the poor girl threw herself into a chair and burst into 
tears. 

“ Indeed, ma’am, I have cried all night at the thought of 
leaving you and the children ; but here is a letter I got last 
night, and my mother is so sick they think she is going to 
die, and so she has sent for me to go and stay with her while 
she does live. Indeed, but it ’s a sore trial to part with you 
all ; and my poor mother, too ! I ’m afraid she is n’t pre- 
pared to die.” 

“ 0, well,” said her mistress, trying to speak cheerfully, 
“ we will hope for the best ; your mother may get better 
soon, and then you will return to us. How soon must you 

go?” 

“ That is what troubles me,” said Susan. “ They wrote 
that they would have some one waiting for me at the cross- 
ing, — which is about six miles from mother’s, — when the 
stage passes there to-morrow. To get there by that time I 
should have to go part of the way to-day ; ” and her tears 
flowed afresh. “ Dear little Charlie and the darling baby ! 
how can I leave them ? ” she cried, caressing first one and 
then the other. “ But God will take care of us all, Mrs. 
Duncan,” she added, in her simple faith ; “ and if it is best 
for us to be afflicted, we must not complain.” 

The day wore sadly away. Susan, by her fidelity and 
devotion to their interests, had won the esteem of all, and 
9 


98 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


made herself almost indispensable to their comfort. Char- 
lie was loud in his demonstrations of sorrow for her departure, 
and little Myrtie seemed babyishly inclined to join in the 
general feeling that they were losing a faithful as well 
as servant. Poor Susan could scarcely refrain from continual 
sobbing, as she made her few simple preparations to leave, 
now and then stopping to clasp the baby in her arms once 
more, or joining with tearful eyes in some childish frolic with 
Charlie. 

At length she spoke hesitatingly to Mrs. Clayton, as she 
sat with the baby in her lap, while Mrs. Duncan was sewing 
near by, — “I ’ve been thinking that I should feel easier if you 
had some good faithful girl to take my place before I go. 
These little darlings ” — and her lips quivered — “ want some 
one to walk and play with them.” 

“ I am aware of that,” replied Mrs. Clayton ; “ but 
where should we look for one to fill your place, Susan? 
We c^not trust every one ; and, besides, we hope you will 
return soon.” 

“ I hope I may,” answered Susan ; “ but there is a nice 
girl staying down to Mrs. Carter's, who would be glad to 
serve you, even for a short time,- as she is poor and needs some 
help.” 

“ Who and what is she ? Do you know her, Susan ? ” Mrs. 
Duncan asked, looking up with interest. 

“ She can tell you better than I, ma’am, if you would see 
her. I only know that she had to flee her own country, 
where she was well off, because she was persecuted so for 
becoming a Protestant.” 

“ She was a Catholic, then ? ” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


99 


“ Yes, ma’am ; and she seems so humble, so good, that Mrs. 
Carter says it is worth her board to hear her talk.” 

“ Perhaps we had better see her, Anna,” said Mrs. Clay- 
ton to her daughter ; “ we cannot tell how long Susan may 
have to stay and nurse her mother ; and you are not able to 
take care of the children.” 

“ How dp you know she would like to come here ? ” asked 
Mrs. Duncan. 

“ Why, because I have met her several times when we ’vc 
been out walking, and she seems so fond of the children ; she 
said, only yesterday, that I must be the happiest girl in the 
world with such sweet little treasures to guard. You must 
excuse me, ma’am ; but when I saw her walking along by here 
this morning, I told her how bad I felt to leave you, and she 
said. Could n’t she serve you till I come back ? She would do 
everything for those darlings, and such a sweet woman as she 
knew their mother must be.” 

“She has a smooth tongue, anyhow, I should judge,” 
said Anna, smiling ; “ but you may go and tell her I would 
like to see her, and if she impresses me as favorably as she 
has you, she can remain.” 

Susan went out, and soon returned with the girl, whom she 
fortunately met, as she said, just outside the gate. She was 
a demure-looking person, a little older than Anna had ex- 
pected to see, but very neat and tidy, and with an air of good 
breeding seldom found in one of her rank. Both Mrs. Clay- 
ton and Anna were sufficiently pleased with her appearance to 
justify Susan’s good opinion. 

“ Your name, if you please,” said Mrs. Duncan. j 


100 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Marguerite, at your service, ma’am,” she answered, in a 
pleasant voice. 

“ Susan was telling me,” continued Anna, “ that misfor- 
tunes had driven you to this country. I should like to know 
a little of your history.” 

“ Perhaps these will contain all the information you wish,” 
said she, handing her a small package. 

Anna glanced over the papers, which she passed to Mrs. 
Clayton, remarking, as she did so, “ You certainly have most 
ample and creditable testimony for your integrity, as well as 
religious principles. Would you like to take charge of my 
little pets during Susan’s absence ? ” 

“ No service would be more agreeable to me,” said Mar- 
guerite, as she smilingly beckoned Charlie to her lap. 

Susan felt greatly relieved when she resigned her duties 
into the hands of one, as she believed, every way worthy and 
capable ; and she left the roof which had been such a pleas- 
ant home for her, weeping, of course, but with a lighter heart 
than a few hours before seemed possible. 

Marguerite’s gentle, unobtrusive manners, her assiduous 
efforts to please, and her love for the children, which seemed 
strengthening every day, soon gained the entire confidence of 
Anna and her mother. 

“ I do not like to see my mistress bending over her sew- 
ing so continually,” said she, one day, to Mrs. Clayton. 
“ If she would only allow me to do it for her, I should be so 
glad ! ” 

The little garment was placed in her hands, and finished 
with such exquisite skill, that, by her own entreaty, the whole 
juvenile wardrobe was intrusted to her care, and Anna left 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


101 


at liberty to breathe more freely the pure air of heaven. To 
the quiet parsonage did her steps almost daily lead ; and Bes- 
sie, too, had reason to rejoice in Marguerite’s ejfficient aid, 
which thus afforded her many hours of the sweet companion- 
ship of her friend. 

“ I have come to sit with you all the morning,” said Anna, 
one day, as she entered Bessie’s cosey breakfast-room ; “ so, 
just prepare yourself for a regular siege, for I told Marguerite 
to leave the children here on their return from their morning 
walk. Everything looks so pleasant and cheerful here, I 
should like to sit down and have one of our old-fashioned 
chats.” 

“ And have the talk all on your side,” added Bessie, laugh- 
ingly, as she welcomed her. 

“ No danger of .that,” returned Anna, “ for one half the 
time, at least, I should have to listen to the praises of a certain 
model husband.” 

“ And the other half,” retorted Bessie, slyly, “ would be 
scarcely sufficient to recount the perfections of two little 
angels.” 

“ Let ’s have a truce, now we are even,” said Anna, “ and 
I will agree with you that Herbert is a perfect embodiment 
of everything that is good, pure, and noble.” 

“ And I will say, what I think^^^ added Bessie, earnestly, 
“ that Charlie and Myrtie are the loveliest, sweetest cherubs 
I ever saw, and are worthy of their mother.” 

Tears trembled in Anna’s eyes, as she related to Bessie the 
frightful vision which had so terrified her the night before 
SusaL’s departure, and how foolishly it had affected her ever 

9 # 


102 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Bince, — the yawning mouth of that dark abyss seeming ever 
open before her. 

“ Why, Anna ! ” exclaimed she, “ I did not know you were 
so superstitious ; it was doubtless the effect of unusual fatigue 
or anxiety. Pray, don’t be so weak as to allow it to trouble 
you a moment.” 

The entrance of Marguerite, with her little charge, effectu- 
ally put an end to the conversation ; but it left an unpleasant 
impression on Bessie’s mind, which she in vain tried to ban- 
ish. 

“When shall I come for them?” asked Marguerite, as her 
mistress gently excused her. 

“ In season to return home to dinner,” replied Anna, closing 
the door. 

“ Come, Charlie, now we ’ll have a good frolic,” cried she, 
as she playfully ran around the room, while, with a joyous 
bound, he caught her, to the screaming delight of his baby 
companions. 

Would that this innocent and happy scene had no dark 
counterpart, — that as the day had commenced, so it might 
close, in brightness and peace ! But we will not anticipate, 
save to follow the steps of the perfidious nurse, as she glides 
stealthily along to a thick copse by the bank of the river. 

“ Is everything ready?” whispers a hoarse voice. 

“ Everything, father,” is her response. 

“ Where are the clothes ? ” 

“ Yonder, at the foot of that large tree.” 

“ Remember, Marguerite, act your part well, on pain of the 
consequences; be here 'precisely at two, and leave the rest 
to us.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


103 


Marguerite is late,” said Anna, looking at her watch ; 
“ what can have detained her ? I think I will walk along 
and meet her.” 

“ If we cannot persuade you to dine with us,” said Mr. 
Lindsey, who had just come in, « I will take little Myrtie 
and escort you.” 

“ Thank you, and if you will repeat the favor to your wife 
this evening, I shall be doubly obliged. Don’t forget, Bessie, 
that you have promised me a few hours to-night.” 

“ A promiji^ so pleasant to fulfil,” answered Bessie, “ is 
not likely to be forgotten.” 

<< There is Marguerite, now,” said Anna, after they had 
walked a short distance ; “ but she is coming in the opposite 
direction from our house.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mrs. Duncan,” Marguerite began, as 
she hastily approached them; “I thought I had sufficient 
time to gather a few of those bright red berries Master Char- 
lie wanted so much this morning, and so I ran up into the 
woods for them. I am really very sorry to have troubled 
you so much, sir,” added she, as she took the baby from his 
arms. 

Mr. Lindsey left them, and thoughtfully walked home- 
ward. 

“ Wife,” said he, as they sat down to their dinner, “ I 
wish you would advise' your friend to dismiss her new nurse.” 

“Why, what can you mean,Herbert?” she asked, in sur- 
prise ; “ we all think her a wonderful person.” 

“I will tell you, Bessie; as I was riding home this morn- 
ing, over an unfrequented road, I saw two persons earnestly 
engaged in conversation. The man, I judged, from his enor- 


104 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


mous whiskers and heavy eyebrows, was disguised ; and his 
companion was no other than the very meek-eyed nurse who 
met us just now, and, as an apology for being late, said she 
had been to gather berries for Charlie ! Depend upon it, there 
is something wrong.” 

Bessie thought of Anna’s dream, and shuddered. “ I will 
warn her this very night,” said she. 


“ Have we kept you long waiting, mother ? ” asked Anna, 
as Mrs. Clayton met her at the door. _ 

“ No, dear ; your father was unexpectedly called to the city 
a few hours ago, and we shall dine by ourselves.” 

“ How lonely it seems without him,” said Anna, as they sat 
at the table, “ he is always so punctually in his seat. Will he 
come back to-night ? ” 

“ I cannot tell ; he received a message, just after you left, 
saying that a friend of his was supposed to be dying, and he 
must go to him without delay. It was a person to whom your 
father is very much attached, and the news agitated him 
exceedingly.” 

“Where is Marguerite?” inquired Mrs. Clayton of the 
servant who answered the bell. 

“I don’t know, ma’am; she hasn’t been round here all the 
forenoon.” 

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Anna, “if she has gone 
to get some more of those berries ; she thinks every whim of 
Charlie’s must be gratified.” 

“ Mamma, come play with me ! ” cried a sweet little voice, 
as a bright face peered into the room. 

“ In a moment, Charlie, when I have put on the baby’s hood.” 


ANNA CLATT,ON. 


105 


*‘Now, what shall we play?” said his mother, carefully 
seating the wee thing upon a soft, grassy spot. 

“Let me catch you, mamma!” and away she jumped, 
dodging behind bushes and trees, till, to his infinite delight, 
the little fellow finally cornered her, and caught her in his 
plump arms. 

“Mamma is tired now! ” said she, sitting down under a 
tree, with the laughing baby in her arms. 

Charlie crept slyly along, and down came a crimson shower 
of berries over both, while a shout of joy behind them pro- 
claimed the Jllhor of the mischief. 

“ O, you rogue ! ” cried his mother, turning partly round 
to catch him. 

But she suddenly paused, as she perceived an elegant car- 
riage approaching them, and was making a rapid retreat into 
the house, when her own name was pronounced in gentle tones, 
but with a voice which froze the very life-blood within her 
heart. Transfixed with surprise and dismay, she stood like 
some lifeless statue, speechless and immovable. 

“ Do not be so alarmed, dear Anna ! ” said Charles Duncan 
(for he it was), approaching her. “ I could not live without 
one more look at your sweet face. I have not come to dis- 
turb your happiness, but I think we should have a more kindly 
parting than our last.” 

“ 0, Charles ! ” she cried, at length, “ what baseness, what 
meanness, thus to break your pledge, and destroy all our 
hopes ! ” 

“ Il6ally ! So, then, you have hopes ! ” returned he, deri- 
sively. “ Pray who is the fortunate object of them ? ” 


106 


ANNA CLATTON, 


Charles, stop ! ” cried she, with an indignant flush. “ I 
hope for naught save to live and die in peace ! ” 

“ Which you never shall ! ” thundered he, as he seized the 
little ones, and, with the agility of a cat, sprang into the 
carriage. 

“ What can you mean ? ” screamed she, grasping the wheel, 
and placing herself before it. 

One glance at Charles’ priestly companion in the carriage, 
the heavy blows of a stout whip-handle mangling those deli- 
cate fingers ere they loosed their hold, the pleading voices 
of the helpless ones mingled with her own piercing shrieks for 
aid, were the last memories of Anna’s reason. 

It was a maniac who sped so swiftly after the fast-receding 
carriage, rending the air with her unearthly shrieks, until 
exhausted nature kindly laid her senseless form in the dust. 
Why, 0 mother earth, didst thou not open thine arms and 
receive this stricken one to thy cold bosom ? Kather would 
we lay her within thy dread embrace, than witness the spirit’s 
awaking to its deathless agony ! 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ Awhile she stood 

Transformed by grief to marble ; and appeared 
Her own pale monument ; but when she breathed 
The seeret anguish of her wounded soul. 

So moving were the plaints, they would have soothed 
The stooping faleon to suspend his flight. 

And spare his morning prey.’* 

Fenton’s Marianne.** 

Not until lie reached the city, and found his friend in per- 
fect health and safety, had Squire Clayton one thought of 
treachery. Now, however, his suspicions were fully roused, 
and visions of robbery, and murder even, of which he might 
be the victim, filled him with apprehension and alarm. Alas ! 
how did his worst forebodings sink into utter insignificance, as 
he hurriedly reentered his own home, and gazed with horror 
upon that wreck of reason and beauty which lay extended 
almost lifelessly upon her couch ! 

0, who can break to him the sad tale of bitter anguish, 
or dash from his lips the sweet chalice of hopes which tiny 
hands had raised, filled with life and joy ! None save her 
whose gentle hand draws him tenderly from this scene of woe, 
as, with a mighty efibrt stilling her own grief, she gradually, 
though fearfully, discloses the dreadful deed which had deso- 


108 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


lated their happy home. With firmly-get teeth and clenched 
hands did the grief-stricken father listen to the terrible recital. 

“ I have done it all ! ” at length exclaimed he, hoarsely. 
“I see it now ! but, O God, what a fearful retribution ! ” 
And the strong ma^ bowed his head and wept, in the bitter- 
ness of his soul. 

Now, for the first time, did he feel the^w2^?er of those into 
whose snare he had fallen, bearing with him his own precious 
child, an unwilling victim. Past scenes, in which he had 
been but the too willing dupe of arch-deceivers, fiashed upon 
his memory, and daguerreotyped there, with fearful distinct- 
ness, his own image, stem, relentless, heeding naught save his 
accursed ambition, cunningly guided by priestly infiuence, 
even to the sacrifice of one dear as life to him, and the dese- 
cration of all her holiest affections. All was clear to him 
now. Ho'had been made, through the machinations of others, 
the destroyer of his own child. No less bitterly did he curse 
his own guilt, because he, too, had been the victim of Jesuit 
intrigue. And those innocent babes, the pride and joy of his 
life, must they, too, be sacrificed ? He dared not trust him- 
self to answer this question ; but rushed from his dwelling 
with every thought centred in one great purpose — that earth 
should contain no spot to hide those treasures which he would 
not search for their rescue. Little dreamed'the deluded man 
that, while with frantic zeal he urged his neighbors on in their 
ceaseless, hopeless search, those Jesuit miscreants were calmly 
sailing with their innocent prey over the deep blue waters, 
laughing to scorn his futile attempts; or that inquisitorial 
bolts and bars could shut forever in Stygian darkness those 
helpless ones ! What drops of anguish fell from his brow as 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


109 


he listened to the piteous moans of the woe-stricken mother, 
or heard her piercing shrieks for aid, as she lived over again 
the horrors of that brutal scene ! “ Would to Glod,” he cried, 
in his utter wretchedness, “ that reason may never return, to 
mock, with its terrible truth, my heart-broken child ! ” 

Pale with sorrow and grief stood one beside him, as, with 
clasped hands uplifted, she replied, “Pray rather that the 
broken heart may find its healing and rest in one who died 
for her ! ” And her face glowed with a heavenly light. Tho' 
old man gazed upon her al^st in awe ; but his prayerless 
heart beat no response, and he turned away and sought the 
solitude of his chamber, where for days none might witness 
the secre^mdghty wrestlings of his newly-awakened*soul. 

With^noiseless step and quivering sympathy, Bessie hov- 
ered over the insensible form of the smitten one, soothing, 
with child-like gentleness, her frantic ravings, or weeping 
wildly, as those arms were stretched forth in-delirious eager- 
ness to clasp the babes, who, alas ! may never more know a 
mother’s love, or feel her warm embrace ! Dear as Anna had 
ever been to her, Bessie’s heart now yearned with more than 
a sister’s love over her crushed and blighted existence. Long, 
earnestly, agonizbigly^ did her prayers ascend, that the dove 
of peace, with healing in its wings, might rest in that stricken 
heart, filling with sweet hope and trust its first awakening to 
reason and its own desolation. 

“ And shure, ma’am, there ’s bin a jintleman afther yees 
twice this morning,” said Bridget, as Bessie returned to her 
home, after a long, watchful night by Anna’s bedside. 

“ Did he leave his name, Bridget ? ” said she, with some 
surprise. 

10 


110 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ He said he wouldn’t lave it, as maybees ye didn’t re- 
mimber him ; and when I axed him should I call the minister, 
he turned aboot fornenst me, and said he ’d call agin.” 

“ Who can it be ? ” said Bessie, thoughtfully. 

He ’s a fine raal jintleman, anyhow,” said Bridget. 

“ Well, I shall know when he comes,” said Bessie, as she 
’kissed her baby, and, with a sigh, thought of the joyous ones 
who, but a few days ago, filled that very room with their 
music, and were now none knew where, — perhaps moaning 
their little lives away in piteo^ cries for the loving mother 
who had ever soothed all their childish griefs. More closely 
hugged she her own little nestling, as her tears flowed for the 
innocent and suffering. ^ 

The swollen eye and quivering lip betrayed her ^ygitation, 
as she rose to greet the stranger, whom Bridget announced as 
“ the jintleman.” 

One glance at the noble form and handsome features before 
her sufficed to remind Bessie of early days, and her face 
brightened with pleasure as she welcomed Robert Oraham. 
But thoughts of her^ in whose wild delirium that name had 
been uttered with deep and thrilling tenderness, mingled with 
the loved and lost, saddened her heart, and again gushed her 
tears for the helpless misery of the loved one’s doom. 

“You have just left her bedside!” said he, in a voice 
choked with emotion. “ Tell me, is there any hope? ” 

“ Such hope as a drowning man might have,” replied 
Bessie, bitterly, “ when his escape from a watery grave is but 
the sure prelude to a living death on a barren shore ! ” 

“ Say not so ! ” — and he shuddered as he spoke ; “ there 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Ill 


may be yet a gleam of light for her whose whole life should 
have been one bright sunshine of happiness ! ” 

Bessie shook her head, sadly. “ What can now bring joy 
to the heart thus mercilessly severed ? ” 

“ The love of God ! ” answered he, solemnly. 

“ How could I,” exclaimed she, with emotion, “ for one 
moment seem to question that unfailing source of light, or 
despair of its power to heal such sorrow ? It is the only hope 
I have for our poor Anna’s support, when she becomes con- 
scious of her desolation ! ” 

“ May that terrible awakening be softened by infinite love 
and tenderness ! ” fervently ejaculated he. 

“But,” said Bessie, “I have not yet inquired for your 
welfare. Anna, lying there in hopeless grief, excludes nearly 
all else from my thoughts.” 

“ I have but little to say of myself,” replied he, smiling 
sadly. “ Life had lost for me all its joy when I left these 
shores; and now that I return loaded with what the world 
calls wealth, I find it even more desolate than before. Her 
happiness I could have witnessed with thankfulness. But to 
see her pure, gentle spirit writhing in its agony, is torture 
almost insupportable ! ” And tears, which had never fallen 
for his own sorrows, now coursed each other down his manly 
cheek, convulsing his whole frame. 

0, would some ministering spirit waft the fragrance of that 
pure tribute, wrung from a noble heart, to the unconscious 
sufferer, restlessly moaning upon her couch ! Would it not 
awaken an echo in that breast that should bring back life and 
hope ? Encircled by warm hearts, eagerly waiting to lavish 
their wealth in restoring the light of love to the wandering 


112 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


eye, cannot the past be enshrouded within its own dark grave, 
and the future filled with happiness and love ? Alas, no ! 
for never can that mother’s undying love forget. 

“ Pardon me, Mr. Graham,” at length said Bessie, whose 
nice sense of honor could not be obscured even by her par- 
tiality ; “ pardjn me, but such unwonted emotion seems hard- 
ly consistent with your position.” She paused, as though 
fearful of the ofience her words might give. 

“ May not a brother mourn for the loved playmate of his 
. childhood, or grieve when some ruthless hand pitilessly blights 
the bright existence of his cherished sister ? ” replied he, in a 
gently reproachful tone. “ Even thus do I mourn my poor, 
ill-fated Anna.” 

“ Forgive me,” said Bessie, ingenuously, “ for a thought 
unworthy of your noble nature. As a dear sister she has ever 
wished to be remembered by you.” 

“ Why should I not, then, claim a brother’s right to watch 
over her joyless path, or try to lift the darkness from her 
soul ? ” answered he, eagerly. “ I feel assured, my dear Mrs. 
Lindsey, that you will not misunderstand my feelings in 
desiring to see and comfort this worse than childless mother.” 

“ J certainly shall not,” Bessie replied, quickly; “but 
there are others whose opinion is of more importance.” 

“ I know of none,” said he. “ With pure motives, hallowed 
by the fear of God, I feel that this sacred duty is mine, and 
the smiles or, frowns of the world are alike to me.” 

“ But your wife, Mr. Graham ! ” 

“ Wife ! ” exclaimed he, with surprise ; “ you surely cannot 
suppose such a being exists.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


113 


“ Anna told me you married, soon after you went abroad, 
one who was rich and beautiful,” said Bessie. 

“ Can it be possible that such falsehood was added to 
treachery ! ” cried he. “ And she believed it ? ” 

“ She could scarcely do otherwise,” quoth Bessie, “ when 
the papers announced it to be so. But she ever rejoiced in 
your happiness, so strangely contrasted with her own unhappy 
lot.” 

“ Pure, unselfish being ! ” exclaimed Mr. Graham, “ little 
did she know the utter wretchedness of my lonely life, till 
beams of celestial radiance pierced the gloom, and filled the 
desolate heart with light and peace. To Him who hath veiled 
with his glory the darkness of my own soul would I lead that 
dear sister ; for what but infinite love can heal her bleeding 
heart ? ” 

Bessie listened with admiration to his holy fervor, and, 
warmly grasping his hand, as he rose to leave, breathed the 
hope that Anna might yet find her support in the same love. 

“ Before I go,” he said, “ may I beg the favor of you, 
Mrs. Lindsey, that you will repeat my wishes to Mr. Clay- 
ton. Tell him that the associations of childhood often restore 
reason, and that only as a brother would I seek to lure back 
to her eye its wonted light. The rest I leave to you.” 

“ You will find me a willing advocate,” replied Bessie. 

What death-like stillness reigns within the house so lately 
echoing the gay laughter and merry gambols of light feet ! 
With pale faces and saddened look do its inmates move noise- 
lessly about, for more than the hush of death is there. Upon 
a bed whose snowy whiteness scarce rivals the marble hue 
10 * 


114 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


of her cheek, — fair, beautiful, fragile as the lily, fit emblem 
of her purity, — lies the young mother, calling wildly, in her 
madness, for the lost ones. Bessie, the ever faithful, loving 
sister, bathes her brow and quietly lulls her to sleep, while 
prostrate in his agony kneels the form of one seeking strength 
for this hour of trial. 

“ Help ! help ! ” shrieks the maniac, stretching forth her 
arms ; “ the wretches will tear them away ! See I the priest ! 
he’s got them! Mercy! mercy! will none have mercy?” 
Then, changing to passionate entreaty, she cried, “ 0, Charles, 
give me my darlings, and I will be your slave for life ! I will 
kiss the very dust off your feet ! Hear their screams — I 
come ! I come ! ” and the frantic mother would have leaped 
from the bed to chase the phantoms. Gently, but firmly, 
grasping her hand, nerved with unnatural strength, Eobert 
soothed, with the tenderness of a mother, her unquiet spirit. 

“ Come, Anna, dear,” said he, in the familiar tones of 
childhood, “ let us go down to the river and throw in some 
pebbles to make the water ripple.” 

This simple allusion to their childish sports touched a 
chord in her memory, and, with a half-conscious look, she 
turned towards him and whispered, “ Hush ! where is Eobert? 
I thought I heard his voice. I can’t play without kirn ! ” 

How did the strong heart throb within its narrow bounds 
at this echo from the voices of the past ! But that heart must 
be closed to all its thronging memories, if he would win 
back to light the darkened soul ; and, with firm and holy 
purpose, did he daily breathe forth the treasured scenes of 
early days to the eagerly listening ear. The spell of her 
youth, wrought by the magic of that familiar voice, was 




ANNA CLAYTON. 


115 


speedily exorcising the evil spirit, and but for the woe which 
awaited her return to consciousness Anna’s friends would 
have joyed in their hopes of its restoration. But how shall 
he, whose unwearied eflforts have calmed the frenzied eye, 
and led the bewildered mind back to the dawn of reason, leave 
the perfection of his work to others, and go forth in his 
widowed loneliness ? He feels instinctively that he must flee 
from the recognition of her pure spirit, for his heart hath 
taught him that he but mocks its truth in his fraternol 
professions. Now that he has endeared himself to the care- 
worn father, the anxious mother, and the faithful Bessie, by 
his untiring devotion to one who must ever be to him as a 
sister, shall he remain, to forfeit their respect, and his own 
too, by betraying the secret of his heart ? 0, what mighty 

strivings of spirit are his ! what hours of prayerful self-abase- 
ment, ere he can yield this purified ofiering as sweet incense 
to his Maker ! But his earnest prayers were not unheeded, 
and, in a* strength greater than his own, he left her presence 
with high and noble resolves. 

Now that the strong arm on which the frail flower has 
leaned is withdrawn, what shall save her from sinking? Joy, 
yea, joy even to thee, thou bruised reed, for thy Saviour’s 
loving arms are gently encircling thee; and, when thou 
awakest to the loss of thy earthly treasures, thou wilt find in 
him such love as, through all thy life’s journey, shall sustain 
its grievous burden. 

“ If it must be so, Mr. Graham,” said Mrs. Clayton, 
sadly, “ I will try to acquiesce ; but what will our poor Anna 
do?” 


116 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


All that human love and tenderness can devise,” he 
replied, with deep emotion, “ cannot save her from the dread- 
ful shock which awaits her first moments of reason. Only 
infinite love can soothe the agony of that hour ; and if prayers 
and tears avail aught, she will find a support which all our 
efforts would be powerless to yield.” 

“ But for you, my dear sir,” — and Mrs. Clayton’s voice 
trembled, — “ she might never have been restored to us ; and 
now you do not remain to witness the reward of your efforts.” 

“ Listen to me, my dear Mrs. Clayton, and you will feel 
that duty, as well as safety, bids me go. I can look back 
upon no moment of my life in which Anna was not the first 
object of my love ; and when I was sternly driven from her, 
and barriers deeper than the ocean divided us, she became the 
lone star on which my soul gazed. It was then I learned 
that the heart’s yearnings for earthly love might have a 
higher, holier object, and the soul be filled with a purer joy. 
As a dear sister have I since regarded her ; and had I found 
her a happy wife and mother, I could have claimed a brother’s 
love only, and been content. But seeing her heart broken, 
desolate, stricken by such sorrow as earth could scarce equal, 
has unsealed the fountain which I had thought was closed 
forever ; and I go forth, bitterly conscious of my weakness, 
to wage again the war within my breast. Perhaps, in making 
this confession, I but teach you to despise me and he looked 
anxiously for her reply. 

“Never!” she exclaimed, warmly; “now that I know 
the depth of your love, I but admire the more your noble 
conduct.” 

“ You can scarcely imagine the relief your words afford 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


nr 


me,” he said, striving to repress his emotion ; “for you will 
not now misunderstand my motives in seeking to restore those 
lost ones to their mother.” 

Mrs. Clayton looked up in surprise. — “ Every effort has 
been made, but no trace of them can be found.” 

“ Yet we can scarcely doubt,” added he, “ that they have 
been carried to their father’s home. So strong is my convic- 
tion of this, that to-morrow I set sail for England, and dark 
indeed must be the spot which can hide them from my vigi- 
lance.” 

“ Please, ma’am, there ’s a girl in the kitchen would like to 
see you,” said the servant who filled the place of the false 
Marguerite. 

“ Show her in here,” replied Mrs. Clayton. “ I must beg 
you to wait a few moments, Mr. Grraham, as I have much to 
say to you yet.” 

She had scarcely ceased speaking, when Susan, pale, worn 
and agitated, entered the room, and threw herself at her 
feet, exclaiming, “ Is she — O, tell me, is my mistress still 
alive ? ” 

Astonished beyond measure at her appearance, and still 
more by her anxious inquiry, Mrs. Clayton replied, “ Your 
mistress is alive, Susan ; but how came you in this condition ? ” 
— pointing to her haggard face and tattered dress. 

“’Tis so terrible!” said Susan, shudderingly, — “but 
they would have starved me to death, if I hadn’t got away 
and run here, ^ 

“Who do you mean?” asked Mrs. Clayton, still more 
puzzled. 


118 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


‘‘Why, Mr. Manning and ‘another man, who sent that 
letter to get me away from here, but never to see my 
mother.” 

“Tell me about it!” — and Mrs. Clayton was nearly as 
ao^itated as Susan, while Mr. Graham listened with eager 
attention. 

“ Why, you see, they thought I would n’t let them steal tho 
darlings ; and so I would n’t, if they killed me ! ” and she 
sobbed aloud. 

“ Go on, Susan.” 

“ Well, when I had got to the crossing where the letter said 
some one would meet me, they carried me away and shut me 
in a dark room, with nothing but bread and water ; — all that 
did n’t hurt me so much as what I heard them say about my 
poor mistress.” 

“ What was that ? ” asked Mr. Graham, hurriedly. 

“ Why, after I had been there about a week, I should think, 
I heard some voices talking loud in the next room. One of 
them was Mr. Duncan’s, and Mr. Manning’s too, but I did n’t 
know the others, and Mr. Manning was quarrelling about the 
price he was to get for carrying me away. And then some 
one asked how they were going to get the children ; and IMr. 
Duncan said he could fix that easy enough, — that Margue- 
rite was there, and would do as they told her. O, how I did 
cry when I found out their wicked plan, and that Marguerite 
was such a bad girl ! But I could n’t get away, for they had 
fastened me in.” 

“ Did you hear them say what they should do with the 
children ? ” 

“ They said something about a vessel and England, but I 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


119 


could n’t tell what. I was all the time thinking about those 
innocent little children, and how it would kill my poor mis- 
tress to have them so cruelly stolen away.” 

“Was that all you heard, Susan? You must remember all 
you can, for this gentleman is going to try to find them, and 
perhaps you can help him.” 

“Well, then, I will try and think,” said Susan. “I don’t 
know how long it was afterwards, Mr. Manning came to that 
house, and the woman asked him how they got along. ‘ 0, 
nicely,’ said he ; ‘ they ’re half way across the Atlantic now ; ’ 
— and when she told him not to speak so loud, for fear, I 
suppose, that I should hear, he laughed louder yet, and said, 

‘ She won’t tell any more tales, I guess.’ So I knew they 
meant to kill me, and every day I tried to get away, till 
yesterday, when the old woman came in to give me some 
bread and water, I caught her and tied her hands with some 
strings I made of my clothes, and then ran as fast as I could, 
when I came up with a wagon, and asked the man to let me 
ride, and he brought me most here.” 

“ Poor child ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Clayton, “ you, too, have 
suffered, but you shall be tenderly nursed now.” 

“I am persuaded,” at length said Mr. Graham, hastily 
pacing up and down the room, “ that this has been a deep- 
laid plot, for some dark object ,* and Susan’s sad story makes 
me more determined to search it out.” 


CHAPTEK XIII. 


“ Generous as brave, 

Affection, kindness, the sweet offices 

Of love and duty, were to him as needful 

As his daily bread.” Rogers. 

The light of a new day was gently stealing within the 
darkened chamber, revealing in its softened beams the pallid 
features and wasted form of the unconscious sleeper, and the 
anxious faces of those who through the still night had kept 
their silent watch. From that long and quiet sleep will her 
spj^it awake with the light of other days ; or, is this but its 
entrance to immortality ? The muffled tread, hushed voices, 
and throbbing hearts, are but silent witnesses of the hopes and 
fears which fill each bosom, as they tremblingly await the 
dreaded crisis. Life and death, struggling each for the victory, 
seem so nicely balanced, that none may tell which shall 
triumph. All that medical skill and untiring love can devise 
has been done, and now in prayerful suspense do they rest their 
hopes upon the Great Physician, who alone can lift the veil 
of darkness from her soul, and fill her joyless heart with un- 
measured bliss. With cheerful hope and unwavering trust in 
his mercy, we leave her, to wander forth with one who, intent 


ANNA CLATTON. 


121 


on noble deeds, is already dashing o’er ocean’s trackless path, 
towards the English shore. Full of anticipation, he heeds not 
the fierce lashing of angry waves on the frail vessel ; and when, 
in her weakness, she yields to the mighty power which naught 
earthly can control, and lies a helpless, shattered wreck upon 
the boiling, surging sea, mingled with his thanks for deliver- 
ance is the prayer that thus he may not be delayed in his 
cherished object. As if in answer to this petition, a friendly 
bark receives and safely conveys him to the land where, in 
imagination, he has already found the lost babes. He forgets 
that an influence more potent than royalty itself, and to which 
he must inevitably yield, meets his first step ; nor does he 
know that watchful eyes are regarding him with keen interest 
as he hastens on shore, in his impatient zeal forgetful of all 
else, save his errand of mercy. Deluded man ! he has yet to 
learn that priestly despotism, with its thousand argus eyes 
ever on the alert, will but scoff at his powerless efforts to trace 
its dark path, or rescue from its iron grasp its chosen vic- 
tims ! 

“ The thing is easily enough managed,” said the very rever- 
end father to Bernaldi, as they sat together, a few mornings 
after the arrival of Robert Graham ; — “ from his movements, 
we may look for him now at any time, and you must remain 
at Beechgrove to guide that foolish fellow’s tongue, or else, 
in his blundering way, he may betray us. Beat it into his 
thick brain, if you can, that he is to be utterly ignorant of 
everything pertaining to the children, and don’t suffer him to 
make any remarks whatever. And, another thing, — warn 
Marguerite.” 


122 


anna CLAYTON. 


“ You have given me a hard task,” replied Beinaldi. “ 1 
had rather undertake anything than to manage Duncan’s 
tongue. But curse me if I don’t send that infernal Graham 
back emptier than he came I I know his mettle, and ’t will be 
rare sport to break it, and teach him to let other folks’ busi- 
ness alone.” So saying, he left the house, mounted his steed, 
and was soon gayly pacing along the road which led to Beech- 
grove. He had gained but half the distance, when, suddenly 
turning, he perceived a horseman advancing rapidly to over- 
take him ; and one keen glance from under those heavy eye- 
brows sufficed to reveal to him the well-remembered features 
of Robert Graham. The Jesuit was 'himself at once, and 
courteously awaiting the approach of the stranger, saluted 
him in his blandest tones. 

“ I am somewhat fearful,” said Robert, returning the salu- 
tation, “ that I made a wrong turn a few miles back, and 
should be greatly obliged if you can direct me, by the nearest 
course, to Beechgrove.” 

“The obligation will rest upon me,” replied Bernaldi; 
“ for, as I am going thither myself, and the ride is somewhat 
lonely, I shall be thankful for such agreeable company.” 

“ Really ! ” exclaimed Robert. “Then, perhaps, you know 
Mr. Duncan.” 

“ It is easy to perceive that you are not an Englishman,” 
quoth Bernaldi, laughing, “ or Sir Charles would not be so 
unceremoniously stript of his title. I know Sir Charles Dun- 
can very well,” added he, good-humoredly. 

“ I meant no offence to Sir Charles,” replied Robert; “but 
we Americans, so simple in our habits, do not easily fall into 
your aristocratic notions.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


123 


“ You are j&om America, then ? ” 

“ I have but recently arrived from there.” 

“ And you know Sir Charles?” queried Bernaldi. 

“ I cannot say I know him personally, having never seen 
him. Have I the honor of addressing one of his friends ? ” 
said Robert, turning towards Bernaldi. 

“ I am his friend ; but Sir Charles is not a person to at- 
tract any warmer feeling. Hunting and fishing are about all 
he cares for, except Lady Emilie.” 

“ And who is she, pray ? ” 

“ His affianced bride,” said Bernaldi, keenly eying him. 

Robert started, changed color, but, fearful of betraying 
himself too far, said, carelessly, 

“ Then he is married ! ” 

“ Not yet,” replied Bernaldi ; “ but great preparations are 
making for the event, which, it is said, will speedily take 
place. Lord Be Yere insists upon great pomp and ceremony 
in the marriage of his only child ; and Sir Charles is too well 
pleased with the beautiful heiress to care for the arrange- 
ments. So it is thought the affair will exceed in magnificence 
nobility itself.” 

Robert rode on in silence, assuming an indifference he was 
far from feeling. Shocked beyond the power of expression at 
the perfidy of the wretch, who dared to add dishonor to the 
wrongs he had already committed against his pure wife, he 
scarcely knew what course to pursue. He would gladly con- 
fide in his chance companion, and seek counsel of him ; but 
he knew not who or what he might be, and the secret must, 
therefore, remain locked in his own breast. He was roused 
from his revery by the voice of Bernaldi, who exclaimed. 


124 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ This way, if you please — this is Beechgrove.” And, 
turning their horses’ heads, they cantered briskly through a 
broad avenue, shaded by noble trees, whose luxuriant foliage 
formed a magnificent arch above them. With a mind at ease, 
Kobert would have revelled in such beauty as everywhere 
filled his eye ; but the pale, wan face of one whose stolen 
treasures he sought looked forth pleadingly from each shrub 
and flower, and his heart needed no stronger appeal to urge 
him on. 

The cunning, crafty priest succeeded in impressing upon 
Charles the necessity of following his instructions implicitly, 
if he would not be thwarted in his marriage with Lady 
Emilie ; and then, with great affability, presented him to the 
stranger, who had overtaken him in his ride thither, but whose 
name he had not yet the pleasure of knowing. 

“ The simple, untitled name of Eobert Graham is all I can 
boast,” replied he, handing each a card ; “and, as I have very 
important business with Sir Charles, I would beg the privilege 
of a few moments’ private conversation.” 

“ If Sir Charles desires, I will retire,” said Bernaldi, rising. 
“ But probably Mr. Graham is not aware of our relation to 
each other.” 

“ No, good father,” quoth Charles; “ pray be seated. As 
he is my father-confessor,” he added, turning to Eobert, “ I 
can have no secrets from him. Your, business, therefore, 
whatever its nature, you need not fear to disclose before him.” 

Eobert hesitated, as the thought flashed upon him that this 
might be the very priest Anna called upon so loudly in her 
madness; and, if so, any attempt to rescue the children he 
would probably defeat. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


125 


“ I see,” said Bernaldi, again rising, “ that Mr. Graham 
considers me an intruder, and I will therefore relieve you 
both of my presence.” 

“ I tell you, Father Bernaldi,” impatiently interrupted 
Charles, “ what I just now told Mr. Graham. I have no 
secrets from you, neither do I wish to have ; so I beg you to 
sit quietly, while Mr. Graham will do me the honor to com- 
municate his business with me.” 

Thus called upon, Bobert felt that he could hesitate no 
longer ; and, turning to the confessor, he said, ingenuously, 

“ I did prefer to see Sir Charles alone, as I judged, from 
your remarks by the way, that he had kept one secret, at least, 
which I would not willingly betray without his consent. But, 
as he assures me it is not so, and bids me proceed, I will 
do so. I come to bring you tidings. Sir Charles, of your 
pure and lovely wife, whom you trampled in the dust, and 
left shrieking in her wild despair, as you tore from her bosom 
those helpless babes, and bore them from her sight ! ” 

B-obert had risen from his seat, and stood calmly, sternly 
gazing into Sir Charles’ face, as he addressed him. The latter 
at first assumed a puzzled look ; but, as Bobert concluded, he 
exchanged glances with the priest, and both burst into an 
immoderate fit of laughter. 

“ I declare,” cried Charles, as soon as he could speak, 
“ 'that ’s too good to be lost. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Why, bless you, 
Graham, you ’re capital at a joke. I have n’t heard anything 
better, these many days. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

“ What do you mean, sir?” exclaimed Bobert, looking at 
him in astonishment and anger. “Is it Iwr memory you 
would insult, or me, her humble advocate ? ” 

IP 


126 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Neither, ’pon my word,” said Charles. “ But — ha ! ha ! 
ha ! You must excuse my laughing. What do you mean ? ” 

“ I should think my words were sufficiently plain to be 
understood. If not, your own conscience may help explain 
them,” replied Robert, with extreme disgust. 

“ Ha! ha ! ha ! — You ’ll certainly kill me, yet. Pray find 
out, if you can, good father, what he ’s up to ! ” 

“ If I could see any symptoms of insanity about Mr. Gra- 
ham,” Bernaldi answered, laughing, “’t would be easy to 
account for his strange words ; but, as it is, I am only amused 
at the ludicrous mistake he has made. Why, my dear sir, to 
talk about wife and babes to a man just on the eve of getting 
married, is most laughably absurd ! But ’t will do very well 
as a joke, I confess.” 

“ Gentlemen,” cried Robert, “you will drive me mad ! As 
sure as there is a God in heaven, your unpardonable hypoc- 
risy will meet a just punishment ! If there is any justice in 
England’s laws, you. Sir Charles, shall be made to feel it, and 
render your terrible account before a higher tribunal than 
mine ! ” And he spoke with an earnestness that shook their 
craven hearts. 

“ Why, really, Mr. Graham,” — and Bernaldi’s voice was 
mild and bland, — “I had no thought you were in earnest, 
in charging Sir Charles with the horrible crime to which you 
alluded. Pray, explain yourself further, and we may get 
some clue that will enable us to assist you, if, indeed, you are 
seriously in search of such a monster as you described.” 

Robert gazed into the calm, unruffled face of the speaker 
with distrust ; but the J esuit eye quailed not as it met his 
own searching glance. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


127 


** You would persuade me, if possible,” at length said he, 
that I am a dreamer, crossing the ocean on a fool’s errand, 
only to be laughed at here as playing off a good joke. Now, 
though it can be no news to you, I will tell you why I came. A * 
wife and mother the pride of our village, beloved by all save 
the wretch who called himself her husband, has been despoiled 
of her treasures by ruffian hands ; and their daring plot, so 
brutally consummated, is traced to you. Sir Charles, and a 
priestly accomplice ! Before God, I charge you with that 
* dark and fearful deed, which will yet be terribly avenged ! ” 

“ And who are you, sir,” cried Bernaldi, springing to his 
feet and choking with rage, “ that dare thus insult a gentle- 
man ! Such language is not to be used with impunity by a 
low-born fellow like you ; and if Sir Charles serves you right, 
he will put you where you will not be likely to try it again.” 

“ Sir Charles will do nothing of the kind,” replied Kobert, 
very coolly. “ And you, sir priest, under that smooth and 
Pharisaical face, carry a coward’s heart. I fear you not. 
But, Sir Charles, I have not yet done with you. All your 
efforts to deceive me are vain. I see the trembling heart 
beneath your foolish subterfuge, and I now demand of you 
the whole truth ! ” 

“ By what authority, sir?” demanded Charles. 

“ By the authority of Him who has nerved this arm with 
strength, and this heart with determination, to defend the 
helpless and innocent from such inhuman outrages ! ” 

“ Young man,” interrupted Bernaldi, “ I bid you beware 
the consequences of your violent abuse. If you will insist 
upon it that Sir Charles (who, by the way, has never been in 
America) is the person you denounce for stealing his own 


128 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


children, then search his domains, inquire strictly of all you 
see, and when you are convinced of your mistake, no apology 
can be too humble for such conduct.” With an offended air 
he took Charles’ arm, and they left the room. 

How powerless did Kobert now feel, as the taunting words 
of the priest still rang in his ear, embittering his disappoint- 
ment ! How did he reproach himself, lest he had thwarted 
his own object by hasty words ! To search for the children 
now, would only subject him to further ridicule ; so he would 
return to his hotel, to devise, if possible, some means to out- * 
reach both Sir Qharles and his confessor. Sadly he rode 
through the noble forest, passed the chateau, where, uncon- 
sciously, he was the subject of much conversation, and, 
throwing the bridle-rein loosely upon the horse’s neck, he gave 
himself up to the all-engrossing subject that brought him there. 
Sir Charles’ identity he could not doubt ; — that they had 
assumed ignorance as the easiest way to rid themselves of 
troublesome inquiries, was also plain to him. How he should 
now proceed, was a question which required no little wisdom 
and sagacity. 

He had not long to reflect, ere the sound of horses’ feet ap- 
proaching in the same direction caused him to draw in his 
rein, and turn aside, that the rider might easily pass. 

“I have hastened after you,” said Bernaldi, “to make 
some amends for words which I should not have used, had Sir 
Charles been faithful in the confessional. I find, from what he 
has told me since we saw you, that you were not mistaken in 
the person, as I supposed. I knew he had led a light and 
frivolous life, but to what extent I have only just learned. 
You will pardon me, I am sure, for defending one whom 1 


ANNA CLAYTON, 


129 


thought innocent ; ” and he proffered his hand, in a most con- 
ciliatorj manner. 

“If it was in ignorance that you sought to deceive me, 
and not by design, as I supposed, I am bound to receive 
your apology,” replied Kobert ; “ especially if, now that 
you are enlightened, you will acknowledge the justice of my 
charges.” 

“ The truth is,” said JBernaldi, “ as Sir Charles informs 
me, he took a fancy to visit America, while we thought him 
either in France or travelling on the continent ; and, as young 
men of his cast are apt to do, he formed a strong attach- 
ment to a very beautiful girl there, and professed to marry 
her, though the person employed to perform the ceremony 
was one of his cronies, and of course the marriage was ille- 
gal. Hearing of his father’s illness, and extreme desire to 
see him, he hastened home just in time to receive his 
blessing, with an earnest, dying request that he would marry 
the daughter of a dear friend, whose influence, he trusted, 
would win him from his wild habits. Had Sir Charles then 
confided in me, all might have been well ; but, in his new 
passion for Lady Emilio, he remembered only that no legal 
ties bound him in America, and, therefore, there was no obsta- 
cle to his marrying as his father, and now his own heart, 
desired. He could not, however, so easily forget his two 
beautiful children ; and, with what object I know not, nor 
does he himself know, he took them from their mother and 
conveyed them to France, where they may be educated as 
- becomes his children. All this I have gathered from him 
since you saw him ; and now that I have made the explana- 
tion I thought due to you, I will bid you good-day, with 


130 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


assurances of regret, on my part, at our misunderstanding 
this morning.” 

“ Stay, stay ! ” cried Robert, as Bernaldi turned to leave 
him. “ I must know more about this — when can I see you 
again ? ” 

“ Call at the chateau, yonder, to-morrow, at ten o’clock, and 
I will be there to meet you.” 

Surprise and indignation had so wrought upon Robert’s 
mind, during the priest’s story, that he had not ventured to 
reply, lest he should have occasion again to regret his hasti- 
ness. This he now felt to have been the wisest course ; and he 
returned to the hotel to prepare at leisure for the morrow’s 
interview, upon which important results depended. 

“ Grentlemen, I must rely upon your honor ! ” said Robert, 
looking earnestly at his companions. “ It was my intention 
yesterday, when I left Sir Charles, to have a public investi- 
gation of the matter ; but, if you can assist me in finding the 
children, I care not a farthing for him.” 

“ What we have told you,” replied Bishop Percy, very 
mildly, “ is from Sir Charles’ own confession. I fully agree 
with you in condemning his rash act, and am ready to offer 
you any assistance in my power.” 

“ I wish you both to understand,” added Robert, “ that I 
have not a doubt of the validity of their marriage, and shall 
advise Mrs. Duncan to establish it at once.” 

“There, Mr. Graham,” interrupted Bernaldi, handing 
him a paper, “I have made out a complete directory for * 
ycu ; so I think you will find no difficulty in tracing them.” 

“And you are sure I shall find them there.? ” asked Robert. 


ANNA CL A YTON. 


131 


“We have no reason to doubt it,” they both replied. “ Sir 
Charles declares, upon his oath, .that he left them in the care 
of the abbess whose name I have given you, though he did 
not know that we should inform you. We do it, however, 
from a sense of justice to the suffering mother, and also to 
convince you of our own ignorance and blamelessncss in the 
whole transaction.” 

“ I will trust you, then,” frankly said Kobert, “ and shall 
set forth this very day.” 

“ Not until we have dined together,” added the bishop, 
ringing his bell. “ You and our good Bernaldi here must 
smoke the pipe of peace over a fricassee.” 

“ Nothing easier or pleasanter,” rejoined the priest, laugh- 
ingly. 

A more experienced observer might, perhaps, have seen, in 
their unwonted cordiality and apparent sincerity, some covert 
design ; but, truthful and guileless himself, Robert Graham’s 
suspicions, whatever they might have been, were speedily 
quieted by their seeming interest in his plans, and evident 
desire to assist him in their accomplishment. 

« I feel that I have wronged you,” was his ingenuous con- 
fession, when leaving them, “ and shall bear the remembrance 
of your kindness with me in my lonely search.” 

Then did the hearts of those deceivers bound within them 
at the success of their duplicity. They had met and duped 
the one they most feared, and what should now stay their 
hand from perfecting their own dark purposes ? 

“ I tell you,” exclaimed the bishop, bringing down his hand 
upon the table with an energy that made his companion start, 

4 


132 


ANNA OLA YTON. 


“ I tell you this marriage must be prevented, or yours is a 
life-long work ! ” 

“Well do I know that,” replied Bernaldi; “but how 
shall we manage ? Graham will find out, before long, that he 
is on the wrong scent, and we may expect him back like a 
hyena upon us. We ought to have the thing done before 
that.” 

“ I will think the matter over, and by to-morrow we can be 
ready to act.” 

To-morrow ! How many lips have uttered that word, which 
never breathed its existence ! To how many has its looked- 
for light been but darkness, — the grave of their brightest 
hopes ! 

“ To-morrow,” Sir Charles had said to Lady Emilie, “ we 
will sail over the waters of yonder beautiful lake, happy in 
our mutual love, and each living but in the other’s smile.” 

“ To-morrow ” saw the fair maiden bending in wild grief 
over the dripping, lifeless form of her lover ; while, with ill- 
suppressed rage, the thrice-baffled priest gazed on the face of 
the dead. The, work had been done too soon for him ! 


# 


CHAPTEE XIV. 


** 0 serpent heart, hid vrith a flowering face ! 

Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave ? 

Beautiful tyrant ! fiend angelical ! 

Dove-featherod raven ! wolfish-ravening lamb! 

Despised substance of divinest show ! 

Just opposite to what thou justly seemest.” • 

Shakspeare. 

“ Another letter from Eobert,” exclaimed Mrs. Clayton, 
as she entered the parsonage, and seated herself beside its fair 
mistress. 

“ Indeed ! ” replied Bessie, “ and if I may judge from your 
face, it is not a very sad one, either.” 

“ No, he is full of hope,” said Mrs. Clayton ; “ but read 
for yourself,” — and she handed her the letter. 

“ I write hastily,” — thus the letter ran, — “just as I am 
on the point of starting for France. In my last I told you 
I had determined to seek an interview with Sir Charles Dun- 
can (as he is styled here), as it seemed to me I could reach 
his heart, if he had one. The cool and insulting manner in 
which he received my appeals proved him to be the villain 
we thought him ; and, were it not that he had given his con- 
science to another’s keeping, all my efforts to trace the lost 
12 


134 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


ones would have been fruitless. But, thanks, for once, to that 
system (I cannot call it religion) which places a man’s 
thoughts and actions at the disposal of a mortal like himself, 
the secrets of his confessional were confided to me by those 
who would thus screen themselves and their church from his 
infamous conduct. Had I not a dearer object at heart, I 
would remain here to expose his villany and perfidy, of which 
even you do not yet know all. But the pleading tones of a 
sweet voice, ever sounding in my ear, bid me hasten to restore 
to the desolated home its light and life. I leave this very 
hour for France, where, according to minute directions given 
me by Duncan’s confessor, and his holy leader. Bishop Percy, 
I may learn tidings of those I seek, and perchance bear the 
precious burden to your arms.” 

“ May God reward such devotion ! ” cried Bessie, as she con- 
cluded. “ What a happy life would have been Anna’s, with 
one so noble ! ” 

“ But, then,” replied Mrs. Clayton, with a sigh, “ she might 
have been satisfied with earthly love. Let us not distrust the 
wisdom of Him who hath led her through such dark paths to 
his own bright presence, or fear to trust in his hands the lives 
of those darling ones.” 

“ Blessed be his name,” fervently responded Bessie, “ that 
our prayers are answered, and dear Anna’s heart filled with 
holy peace ! Will you dare tell her of Bobert’s success? ” 

I fear to excite hopes which may not be realized, and yet 
I can scarcely refrain from cheering her with such good 
news,” Mrs. Clayton answered. 

“ But, if Robert should return with the children, as he 
hopes, it would be well to have her prepared for it, as her 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


135 


feeble, shattered system could not bear another shock, even 
of joy.” 

“ Well might Bessie say that my poor Anna can bear no 
more,” thought Mrs. Clayton, as she bent, that night, with 
yearning tenderness, over the shrunken, wasted form which 
told of grief and suffering, and kissed the pallid brow where 
still rested the deep traces of great sorrow. But the soul 
beamed forth with its wonted light, and the eye, though 
dimmed with tears, no longer wandered in maniacal darkness. 

“ Pray for me, mother,” murmured Anna, with quivering 
lip; and her own heart mingled with the soft,, gentle plead- 
ings of that mother’s voice, as she earnestly besought strength 
and comfort for the sorrowing one. Even in that hour of 
holy communion did the sweet incense of the stricken he^b 
ascend in blessings to Him who, in blighting her earthly hopes, 
had filled her soul with heavenly joy and peace. 

Days and weeks passed away, and still Anna’s step grew 
more strong, her heart more steadfast, in its new life of 
fai^; and though the cheek paled, and the mother’s soul 
yearned to clasp again its treasures, she yielded without a 
murmur to her sad and lonely fate. To the parsonage, ever 
the home of holy, happy thoughts, and to Bessie, whose gen- 
tle ministrations and unceasing tenderness had won her spirit 
back to life, did she daily turn for sweet counsel and sympa- 
thy. Life with her was now but a dreary journey, to whose 
end she looked forward with hope and trust. 

“ What can have become of B,obert ? ” said Mrs. Clayton, 
one day, to her husband ; “ it is three months since we last 


136 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


heard from him, and he was to write immediately after he got 
to France,” 

“ I have had many misgivings about him lately, I confess,” 
he replied. “ Having been so terribly deceived myself, I can 
have but little faith in those with whom he has to deal.” 

“ He was so hopeful in his last letter, I was almost tempted 
to show it to Anna, but thought I would wait till I heard 
again.” 

“It was well you did so,” said the squire; “for, after all, 
my hopes of his success are very faint.” 

“Father,” said Anna, entering the room in great agitation, 
and handing him an open paper, “ read that ! ” 

“What is it? what has happened, my child?” exclaimed 
Mrs. Clayton, whose thoughts were at once with Kobert. Her 
hu^and read aloud the paragraph to which Anna had 
pointed. 

“ We regret to announce the death, on the 7th ult., of Sir 
Charles Duncan, only child of the late Sir William, whose 
sudden and untimely end has caused a deep sensation in 
many circles. Especially to the noble family with whom he 
was soon to be united by marriage would we tender our 
warmest sympathy. That one so young, so full of promise, 
with a brilliant future before him, should be thus suddenly 
cut down, is among the mysteries we cannot fathom. The 
treacherous wave whose wild dash stilled the throbbings of that 
heart unfolds none of its secrets, and we are left to wonder 
in silence at its dark deed. We learn that, as Sir Charles 
has left no will, his immense property will pass into the hands 
of strangers on the decease of Sir William^s widow.” 

For a moment no sound broke the stillness, as he ceased 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


137 


readiog. Anna had sunk into a chair, with her face buried 
in her hands. She thought not of the dishonor and shame 
from which death had saved her, nor of the perfidy of the 
wretch who had not been suffered to perfect his guilt; but 
the hope which she had almost unconsciously cherished, that 
her misguided husband would, in some repentant moment, 
restore the loved ones he had torn from her, was now suddenly 
destroyed, and she felt that they were indeed lost to her for- 
’ ever. 

“ My daughter,” exclaimed her father, as if reading her 
very thoughts, “ we will trust in the Lord, that he has gracious 
purposes to perform. We who have been brought, through 
these bitter trials, to taste his love, — can we not trust in 
that love now ? ” 

Anna’s faith brightly shone through those tears, as with 
uplifted eyes and hands she murmured, “ Even so. Father, for 
so it seemeth good in thy sight.” Simple, sweet, yet earnest 
trust, wafted by the breath of angels to its source, it will yet 
return to fill that life with bliss ! 

The postman’s loud knock, resounding through the quiet 
house, caused each to start, and Mrs. Clayton hastened to 
receive from his hands the long-expected letter. Anna gazed 
with surprise at the eagerness with which her mother, after 
scanning the foreign stamp, broke the seal, and sat down ab- 
sorbed in its contents. She turned to her father, but he, too, 
was watching with interest the face of his wife, to gather 
from it, if possible, some hope. Suddenly it flashed into her 
mind that it might be connected with the lost ones, and the 
blood leaped wildly about her heart as she sprang to her 
12 * 


138 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


mother’s side and grasped the letter, exclaiming, breathlessly, 
“ Tell me, is it about them ? ” 

The mild gray eyes beamed sorrowfully upon her, as Mrs. 
Clayton quietly replied, 

“ I have thoughtlessly betrayed what it were best, perhaps, 
you should not know. — It may be better now to tell her all,” 
added she, turning to her husband. 

" I think so,” he replied. 

“ Are they dead ? ” whispered Anna, in a tone half fearful, 
half hopeful, as though death might be preferable to their 
little, joyless lives away from her. 

“No, not dead,” Mrs. Clayton answered; “but here 
comes Bessie, — she can tell you better than I.” 

The quiet, pleasant smile with which Bessie greeted her, 
reassured Anna, and she felt her spirit grow calm and strong 
beneath that loving glance. 

/“Now, Bessie,” said she, “I must hear all that you have 
been concealing from me. Why have I not shared your con- 
fidence ? ” asked she, half reproachfully. 

“ Simply, dear Anna, because we feared you had not 
strength to bear such suspense, which might end in disap- 
pointment.” 

“ As it has,” sighed Mrs. Clayton. 

Bessie looked at her inquiringly. — “Go on,” said she; 
“ and when you have told all, I will read you the letter I just 
received.” 

“Well,” said Bessie, taking one of Anna’s small, white 
hands within her own, “ I know not whether your heart, 
dear Anna, felt its influence, but in the wildest hour of your 
delirium, when hope seemed faintest, one came, strong in 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


139 


heart and purpose, to redeem you — dear to him as a sister 
— from the life-long misery which had fallen upon you. In 
your weakest moments, it was his arm that sustained you, — 
his spirit that breathed the happy scenes of youth into your 
ear, waking recollections which brought back the wandering 
mind. His voice alone, as in low and fervent tones it uttered 
for you the agonizing prayer, would calm your soul to rest. 
But when returning reason gave hope of your restoration, he 
left you to our willing, loving hearts, and went forth to trace, 
and if possible restore, those precious children to you.” 

The head which had sunk upon Bessie’s shoulder was now 
raised in earnest expectation. “Has he — has Kobert found 
them ? ” she exclaimed. “ 0, why did you not tell me this 
before ? ” 

“ No, dear, he has not found them, and the fear that you 
might hope too much from his efforts has kept us silent.” 

“ But Bobert vMl save them ! ” said she, with energy. 

O, how strong is the faith of a loving woman’s heart 1 Anna 
had loved Robert Graham, and, though years ago she crushed 
that feeling, and subdued her love, her perfect trust in him 
had never, for a moment, wavered. 

“ Robert will doubtless use every possible means to dis- 
cover them,” replied Bessie ; “ but they are in the power of 
men who would not easily yield the prize they had taken such 
pains to secure.” 

“Robert had traced them, as he thought,” added Mrs. 
Clayton, “ to France ; but, in a letter the postman brought 
this morning, he says — ” 

“ Let me read it, mother,” cried Anna, eagerly, as a 
shade of disappointment settled on her face. 


140 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Come,” said Bessie, “ you must remember I have not 
heard a word you have been reading, and am all anxiety to 
know what Bobert says.” 

“ Perhaps you will read it aloud yourself, Bessie,” Mrs. 
Clayton replied ; I had scarcely finished it when you came 
in, and Mr. Clayton has not yet seen the letter.” 

“I have been so anxiously watching Anna,” said her 
father. “Does my daughter suffer one doubt to darken her 
mind ? ” he asked, looking into her troubled face. 

“ No, father, I know it is all right, but — 0, my children ! ” 
and nature would speak through the mother’s tears. 

Bessie took up the letter, and, hastily wiping her own eyes, 
began to read : 

“ I had hoped, ere this, to return to you in the joyful 
accomplishment of my mission ; but I have been to France 
only to find myself the victim either of treachery, or ill luck. 
As I wrote you last, I received minute directions from those 
who professed to know, to the convent where the dear little 
ones had been carried and placed in charge of its abbess. 
You may well imagine I lost no time in following these direc- 
tions ; and, sooner than I had thought it possible, the dark 
walls of St. Barbara were before me. Everything about the 
convent corresponded so exactly with the notes given me, that 
my heart beat high with expectation as I entered its gloomy 
portals, and stood in the presence of the lady superior. My 
strength and courage well-nigh fled, as she informed me, in 
answer to my inquiries, that only three days before, the chil- 
dren had been transferred to England, in obedience to Sir 
Charles’ commands. She appeared to sympathize warmly in 
my disappointment, and wept as I told her of the sufferings 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


141 


of their mother. With the greatest courtesy she entertained 
me, and solemnly pronounced over me her ‘ Benedicite ’ as I left 
her, to retrace my steps to England. I go back to Sir Charles, 
and, if necessary, shall take legal measures to expose him, 
and force the children from his unnatural protection. God 
helping me, I will never cease ray efforts while there is any 
hope of saving them.” 

Bessie ceased reading, with a trembling voice, for even h^r 
sanguine nature felt the greatest uncertainty of his success. 
Mrs. Clayton was the first to speak. 

“Now that Charles is removed, Robert may find less diffi- 
culty than he expects.” 

“ I don’t know about that, wife,” said her husband, shaking 
his head ; “ this whole affair has been conducted with more 
shrewdness and calculation than Charles ever possessed. 
There must have been some powerful motive for the commis- 
sion of such a deed, and his death may only conceal it more 
effectually.” 

“ Of whose death -are you speaking ? ” asked Bessie, in 
surprise. 

“ I had forgotten that you were not in when I read that,” 
said the squire, as he gave her the paper. 

What was there in that solemn announcement that caused 
Bessie’s heart to glow with something akin to pleasure ? Was 
it .not that, with woman’s quick instinct, she saw afar off a 
light in the dark pathway of the afflicted one, — a light 
whose radiance, though it could not dispel, would alleviate 
the bitterness of her life ? Whatever were her thoughts, hope 
again smiled through her tears, as she clasped Anna’s hand. 

“ All wUl come out right at last, dear Anna \ only let your 
faith be unshaken and your heart rest in trustful peace.” 


CHAPTEE XV. 


My heart is firm : 

There ’s naught within the compass of humanity 
But I would dare to do.’* 

Hunt’s “Julian.” 

Eobeet Gkaham paced with impatient step the deck of tha 
noble ship which was fast conveying him back to England. 
For hours had he kept his unbroken tread, dwelling moodily 
upon his disappointed hopes and the vague uncertainty before 
him ; for, though he had written hopefully to the anxious ones 
at home, his own heart misgave him as to his final success. 
True, his lip curled with contempt for the miserable being 
with whom he must contend ; but, after all, might not Sir 
Charles’ position and 'wealth give him an influence which it 
would be difficult for him alone to contravene? As this 
thought pressed upon him, he threw himself into a seat, and 
buried his face in his hands. 

“ Thee seems to be in trouble, friend,” said a low voice 
near him, while a hand was laid gently upon his shoulder ; 
“ is there nothing I can do for thee ? ” 

Eobert looked up in surprise, and met the mild but 
earnest gaze of one whose benevolent .face, broad brim, and 
drab coat, bespoke his sect, “ Perhaps I am intruding,” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


143 


continued the latter, “ but thy looks interest me, and I would 
fain be of service to thee.” 

“ Thank you ! thank you ! ” replied Robert, whose heart 
warmed in that genial smile; “but, so far from being an 
intrusion, I am really grateful that you have broken up a 
revery, which, to say the least, was far from being agree- 
able.” 

“ This, surely, is not the place for unhappy thoughts,” said 
the Quaker, pointing around to the calm blue waters through 
which they were gliding, with islands of great beauty here 
and there lending enchantment to the scene. 

Robert, who was an enthusiastic admirer of nature, gazed 
around for a moment with delight, and, turning to his com- 
panion, said, with a smile, 

“ You will scarcely believe, I suppose, that among those 
who know me best I am often called an enthusiast in my love 
of nature, while, for hours, I have been passing through such 
glorious scenes with stoical indifference. How true it is that 
without a mind at ease our highest enjoyment loses its zest ! ” 

“Verily, thou speakest the truth, friend ; but thy clear, 
open brow betrays no consciousness of wrong that should 
sadden thy life.” 

“ It would be strange, indeed, my dear sir, if I did not 
daily find cause for disquiet in my own heart ; but just now 
I am more troubled for others than for myself.” 

“ Perhaps it will be impertinent for me to press thee 
further,” said the Quaker, “ but my heart is strangely drawn 
towards thee, and thy confidendb should be sacred.” 

Robert’s nature was not one to resist the kindly infiuencea 
of such a spirit, and he replied, earnestly, “ I feel assured 


144 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


that confidence in you cannot be misplaced ; and, as I am 
greatly in need of counsel and aid, I will seek both from 
you.” 

His ingenuousness touched the heart of the stranger, who 
grasped his hand, warmly. “ Thee shall find that James Lee 
knows how to be a friend.” 

“ And Robert Graham knows how to be grateful,” added 
he, as he led the way to his state-room, where he could con- 
verse more privately. 

Had the whole world been given him from which to choose, 
Robert could scarcely have found one more competent to 
render the assistance he needed. With a heart filled with the 
liveliest sympathy for suffering in every form, deepened by 
his own checkered life of joy and sadness, James Lee seemed 
peculiarly fitted to enter with all his soul into Anna’s sad 
story and Robert’s noble purposes. Having spent several 
years abroad in accumulating a large fortune, he was no 
stranger to the wiles of those who seek to propagate their 
church by every means within their power, and he doubted not 
Sir Charles had been instigated in his strange course by some 
Popish ecclesiastic, for covert designs of their own. His wise 
suggestions and ready sympathy cheered Robert, while his 
own heart became deeply interested in the fate of the little 
orphaned children. Perhaps the sweet, though sad, remem- 
brance of a little voice which, in earlier days, lovingly lisped 
» father ” in his ear, added a deeper earnestness to his feel- 
ings ; for Robert was scarcely more impatient to unravel the 
mystery than was he. Thus strengthened in his zeal and 
devotion, Robert’s spirits grew light and joyous, and hope 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


145 


once more brightened his path, as they reached England, and 
proceeded without delay to seek Sir Charles. 

“ Nature has doffed her gay attire since I left here,” said 
Robert, as they rode leisurely through woods clad in autumn’s 
sombre hues. 

“ And assumed one more befitting earth,” added his com- 
panion, glancing at his own dress. 

“ Why,” asked Robert, “ was a love of the beautiful im- 
planted within us, if we are not to gratify it by any unneces- 
sary adornments ? ” 

“ Thee should ask thyself that question, Robert,” the 
Quaker replied. “ Does the natural pride of the heart need 
any stimulus from these poor bedizened bodies ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” said Robert, laughing ; “ but nature seeks, 
in its infinite variety of gorgeous colors, to captivate our senses ; 
and why should not we endeavor to make ourselves as attract- 
ive as possible ? ” 

“ Simply, friend Robert, because we do it for our own 
glory, while nature points from every tree and flower to the 
hand that formed its beauty and fashioned its perfections.” 

“ Excellent, my dear sir ! ” exclaimed Robert. “ I am 
almost tempted to don the drab and beaver, and to turn 
Quaker myself.” 

“ Perhaps thee would never have cause to repent such a 
course ; but,” continued he, with a smile, “ a drab coat and 
beaver hat is not all that is required to make thee a Friend.” 

“ Not if I may judge from the noble examples I have seen,” 
said Robert ; “ but we are drawing near Beechgrove, the 
residence of Sir Charles Duncan, and my heart trembles as it 
fears another disappointment.” 

13 


14 $ 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Thee must be content to leave the result with God, when 
we have done all that He puts into our hearts to do,” Mr. Lee 
answered, though he felt more anxiety than he was willing to 
disclose. 

“ How silent and deserted everything appears ! ” said 
Eobert, as they came in view of the mansion. “ Sir Charles 
must be away ; perhaps to meet the children, wbo could not 
have arrived here much sooner than we.” 

“ What dark object is that moving so ste^thily across the 
garden, yonder ? ” asked Mr. Lee, pointing to a figure crouch- 
ing along in the shadow of the hedge, and finally disappearing 
in the opposite direction. 

“ I don’t know,” said Eobert ; « the whole place wears a 
strange look to me.” 

Death had left his dread imprints around them, and they 
knew it not; why should there not be a look of strange- 
ness? 

“ Can we see Sir Charles? ” inquired Eobert of the staid- 
looking personage who answered their summons at the door. 

“ Sir Charles was buried yesterday week,” was the reply, 
in a tone as quiet as though nothing unusual had occurred. 

“ Euried ! Sir Charles dead ! ” they both exclaimed, in 
one breath. 

“I supposed all the country knew that,” was his dry 
rejoinder. 

“Bat where are 1 mean,” said Robert, as a gentle 

touch from his friend recalled him, “ where is Lady Duncan, 
his mother ? ” 

“ My mistress is within,”— in the same cold tone. 

“ Will you, my good man, beg for me a few momeuta’ 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


147 


interview with your mistress ? Tell her my business is of tho 
greatest importance, both to her and myself.” 

“ I will, sir.” 

“ What can I do ? ” said Kobert, turning to his friend, as 
the servant left them to deliver his message. 

“ Go on,” said he; “ perhaps thee will find it easier to deal 
with this woman’s heart than with her son’s. But I am 
shocked at his' death.” 

“ So am I. Strange that we had not heard of it, though 
now I remember I have not read a paper for a long time.” 

“ My mistress declines seeing any one,” said the servant, 
giving Eobert a slip of paper. “ She says that any business 
you may have with her can be attended to by the person 
whose name she has written on that paper and he held the 
door, as though quite willing to close it at once. 

“.Stop one moment, if you please,” said Eobert ; “ where is 
this person to be found ? ” He started as he glanced at the 
name. “ Is it the priest I saw here with Sir Charles?” 

“ He was Sir Charles’ spiritual adviser,” answered the im- 
passive servant, “ and my mistress has chosen him to conduct 
her affairs. He has but just left the house ; is there any- 
thing more ? ” he asked, without raising his eyes from the 
floor. 

“ Yes, one thing; where does he live? ” 

“ In a chateau, a few miles from here, with our most holy 
bishop.” 

“ The very same ! ” exclaimed Eobert, as they rode away 
in the direction of the chateau. “ It was he we saw under 
the garden wall, and doubtless he noticed us too. I know 
not what to expoct now.” 


148 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Expect nothing, from such apostates, but lying, deceitful 
words,” his companion answered, with a bitterness which 
caused Robert to exclaim, 

“ Why, Mr. Lee, such words sound strangely from you, 
though in my heart I believe you are right ! ” 

“ Forgive me, friend Robert, that I have, in mine anger, 
so disgraced my peaceable principles ; but I tell thee I am 
more disappointed than I care to confess.” 

“ And it is all for my sake ! ” said Robert, gratefully. 
“ How can I ever repay you ? ” 

“ By teaching me to be more discreet in my speech,” an- 
swered the Quaker, laughing. 

“ Bo you think this Bernaldi would deceive us about the 
children ? ” asked Robert, anxiously. 

“ If he has any private ends to gain, doubtless he would 
not hesitate to deceive thee,” replied Mr. Lee ; “ and, from all 
thou hast told me, I fear he has already done so.” 

“ The thought of treachery crossed my mind many times 
while talking with the abbess of St. Barbara,” added Robert ,* 
“ but her story seemed so plausible, I could not question it.” 

“ She had, probably, learned her part,” said Mr. Lee. 

Nothing could have been more natural than the look of 
surprise with which Bernaldi and his reverend companion 
greeted Robert, as he entered their library and introduced his 
friend. 

“We thought you were well on your way to America, 
before this time,” graciously remarked the bishop. “ To what 
happy circumstance are we indebted for the pleasure of seeing 
you again ? ” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


149 


“No very agreeable eircumstance, certainly, brought mo 
back to these shores and to your dwelling,” answered Robert, 
coolly ; “ I have either been misled, or chances are strangely 
against me.” 

“ Explain yourself, if you please, Mr. Graham.” 

“ An explanation is what I seek,” returned Robert. “ I 
have been, at your bidding, to St. Barbara, only to be told 
that the children had been sent back to England, by Sir 
Charles’ order. Now — ” 

Is it possible ? ” they both cried, interrupting him. “ Sent 
back ! It is passing strange,” continued Bernaldi, “ that Sir 
Charles should have done this without my knowledge.” 

“But has it been done without your knowledge?” asked 
Robert, earnestly. 

“ Most certainly, my dear sir ! Can you doubt it, after all 
the efforts I made to discover for you the retreat of his chil- 
dren ? ” 

“ Friend,” said James Lee, rising and looking sternly in 
his face, “ wilt thou lay thine hand on this book, thy Catho- 
lic Bible, and declare, upon its truth, that thou hast no knowl- 
edge of Charles Duncan’s children ? ” 

The blood mounted high in Bernaldi’s face, but he restrained 
his anger, as he replied, “ Gentlemen are generally ready 
to take each other’s word without sealing it with an oath ; but, 
as you seem to question mine, I am ready to assure you, in 
any manner you choose, that I know nothing of them. Does 
that satisfy you ? ” 

“ And thee also, friend ? ” asked Lee, turning to the bishop. 

“ I apprehend you are not aware of my position,” he 
haughtily answered ; “ the church does not allow those whom 
13 * 


150 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


she has placed high in authority to be amenable to the 
laity.” 

“I asked but a simple question, friend,” persisted Lee; 
“ will not thy church suffer thee to say yea or nay ? ” 

“ Let it be nay, then, to save further words,” replied he. 

“ Now, Robert,” said his friend, “ thy course seems to be 
plainly marked. If these good people cannot assist thee, the 
law must.” 

“ Of what avail can the law be, now that Sir Charles is 
dead ? ” inquired Bernaldi. 

“ The law can penetrate into many a secret place hidden 
from our eyes,” Lee answered, significantly. 

“I should be as rejoiced as yourselves,” said Bernaldi, 
without appearing to notice his meaning, “ if these little ones 
can be found, either with or without the help of law ; and I 
promise you my heartiest sympathy and assistance.” 

“Would not Lady Duncan know something of them?” 
asked Robert. 

“ She does not even know of their existence,” replied the 
priest ; “ we thought it best not to inform her.” 

“ But she will* have to know it, in the division of Sir 
Charles’ property,” said Robert. 

A peculiar smile flitted over the priest’s face. — “I don’t 
know,” said he, “ that it will be necessary ; unless their legit- 
imacy is proved, they can have no title to any of his prop- 
erty.” 

“ What can you mean ? ” cried Robert. “ You surely do not 
question the legality of Sir Charles’ marriage ! ” . 

“ And if 7 do not,” warily replied Bernaldi, “ others may, 
and the proof must be clear.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


151 


Robert’s heart sunk as he thought of Anna’s fair name being 
traduced for such mercenary purposes. The interview was 
becoming too painful for him, and, with an abrupt, hasty adieu^ 
he left the chateau, and rode silently away by the side of his 
friend. 


CHAPTER XYI. 


** There is a heaven yet to rest my soul on 
In midst of all unhappiness, which I look on 
With the same comfort as a distressed seaman 
Afar off views the coast he would enjoy. 

When yet the seas do toss his reeling bark 
*Twixt hope and danger.’* Shirley. 

A GREAT change had come over the household of Squire 
Clayton. Mercy, gliding silently along by the side of sorrow, 
had gently distilled hef heavenly dew on its bitter path, and 
subdued the intensity of grief. The humble, chastened spirit 
of the father, so changed from the shrewd, calculating man 
of the world that he had been, and the peaceful though sad- 
dened expression resting on Anna’s still beautiful face, told 
of more than earthly sympathy and support. None could 
doubt the presence of the divine Comforter, as this little group 
daily knelt around the altar their hearts had raised, or as. 
Sabbath after Sabbath, their long-neglected pew in the village 
church was filled with earnest, prayerful hearers. 

From her first knowledge of Robert’s generous intentions, 
Anna had felt a happy confidence in his success; but, as 
months passed away and no further tidings came from him, 
her hope grew faint, and but for the heart’s higher trust she 
would have sunk into deep despondency. Now, however, new 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


153 


views of duty opened before her, and with willing steps and 
ready sympathy she sought to forget her own sorrow in 
ministering to the poor and afflicted around her, and espe- 
cially in leading them to the same source of consolation whence 
she had drawn such full supplies. 

How did the heart of Bessie, her ever dear sister, rejoice 
in the new tie which thus bound them ! In her view Anna 
had lacked but one thing to perfect her lovely character; 
and, though the heavenly light which beamed so sweetly from 
her clear blue eye had been kindled from the ashes of her 
heart’s immolation, Bessie could scarcely regret a sacrifice 
which had produced such glorious results. Now, surely,” 
thought she, “ Anna’s faith wUl have its reward,” as she felt, 
in her short-sightedness, that the hand which smote should now 
be stayed. But not as our thoughts are the thoughts of Him 
who seeth the end from the beginning, and knoweth of what 
sore chastisement the heart hath need, ere it yields perfect 
obedience to his will. Not yet was the bitter cup to pass 
from her ; not till its deep, dark draught had pervaded her 
life, and she had learned to bless the hand which pressed it to 
her lips. 

Kobert returned, but his eye had lost the light of hope, 
and his step the firmness of confident success, with which he 
left Asheville. He had been disappointed in the desire of 
his heart, and he, too, must learn the lesson of submission. 

“ I cannot bear,” he said to Bessie, whom he sought imme- 
diately on his arrival, — “I cannot bear to meet the hopeless 
glance of her eye, when I had thought to fill it with such joy 
and gladness. From you she will better receive the sad news 
of my futile though earnest endeavors to discover her lost 


154 


ANNA CLAYTON, 


treasures. Bear with you the sympathies and prayers of one 
who would fain have brought her more material comfort, but 
that joy was denied him.” 

“ But, surely, Mr. Graham, you will see Anna, and allow 
her to express the gratitude she feels for your great kindness. 
Her disappointment will not be so great as you imagine, for, 
since your last letter, she has had but little hope of your 
success. She would wish, I know, to learn the whole truth 
from your lips.” 

“ Perhaps it will be best,” said he, after a moment’s 
thoughtfulness, “ but I would have gladly spared myself this 
trial.” • 

Bessie did not exactly understand his meaning, but she 
saw that emotion too deep for utterance was agitating his 
whole frame. To divert him from this, she told him of the 
great change in Anna since he last saw her — the sweetness 
with which she had borne her affliction, and her own confi- 
dence that Anna’s faith would triumph over whatever disap- 
pointments awaited her. 

He listened in silence. One question he would ask, but 
dared not. Bessie seemed to divine his thoughts just then, 
for she added, “Anna has often spoken of you as a dear 
brother ; — indeed, she could hardly be more attached to you 
if you were really so.” 

“ Enough! ” thought he; “ a sister’s affection is all she has 
left to bestow on me. Why did I hope for more ? Henceforth 
this heart must learn to feel only fraternal affection for its 
long-cherished idol.” 

“ But you were telling me, just now,” said Bessie, who 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


155 


felt uncomfortable, she knew not why, “ of your friend. Why 
did he not return with you ? ” 

“ Mr. Lee has some business affairs which require nis pres- 
ence in Philadelphia. He will soon, however, join me here ; 
for he has become deeply interested in Anna by his generous 
and unselfish labors for her, and well does he deserve hex 
thanks.” 

“ How noble,” thought Bessie, “ is Robert Grraham ! ever 
awarding praise to others, and receiving none himself.” 

Could she at that moment have looked into the heart she 
was extolling, how would she have been startled by its bitter 
upbraidings, that for years it had toiled on, not unselfishly, 
but with an almost undefined hope of reward at last, — reward 
which might well repay a thousand times more labor ; and yet 
friends had called it a noble sacrifice ! How did Robert con- 
demn himself, as he walked slowly homeward, that he had, 
even unconsciously, acted a false part ; that, while to others 
he had seemed the very embodiment of disinterested noble- 
ness, his own heart had unceasingly plead for a boon richer 
than his whole life’s service could merit ! “ Henceforth,” said 
he, to himself, “ I will prove myself worthy of such a sister, 
A brother will I be to her, and never shall she know the 
deep, unchanging love that lies buried within this heart.” 

Anna wandered restlessly about the house all the morning. 
An unusual depression had fallen upon her spirits, which she 
vainly tried to dispel. The rooms had never seemed more 
silent and deserted, and the echoes of little pratling voices 
were startlingly clear in her imagination. The mother's heart 
is struggling with its intense yearnings for the lost ones. 


156 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Never, in her youthful days, with the rich glow of health on 
her cheek, and sparkling in her eye, had she looked so lovely 
as now, when, in her abstraction, she sank upon a lounge, with 
her head resting heavily upon her hand, and her thoughts 
stretching far, far away, to the imagined resting-place of the 
little wanderers. Her simple mourning dress, while it cast an 
air of sadness about her, made more strikingly visible the 
transparent whiteness of her face and neck ; and, as she sat 
there, lost in deep revery, she seemed more like a beautiful 
Parian statue, draped in sable garments, than a being of life 
and feeling. 

The sound of approaching footsteps, the click of the gate, 
and the opening and closing of the door, were alike unheeded 
by her, whose senses were locked within the secret chambers 
of the soul. Now, however, as a well-remembered voiee pro- 
nounced her name, the spirit returned from its weary flight, 
and she sprang eagerly forward, with a welcome on her lips. 

“ Anna, my dear sister ! ” 

“ 0, Kobert, have you come at last ! ” 

What a world of agonized meaning dwelt in her eye, as 
she raised it in mute appeal to his own ! The strong man’s 
heart quailed beneath that searching glance ; but his voice 
was calm, as he replied, 

“ Anna, I grieve to come to you thus — aIo 7 ie ! But will 
not the same faith which has so strengthened you in your 
hours of darkness now sustain you in this disappointment?” 

He looked anxiously towards her as he ceased speaking ; 
but for a moment no sound escaped her lips. She felt then 
how great had been her trust of late in this arm of flesh, and 
conscience whispered that such faith must ever end in disap- 


ANNA CLAYTON, 


157 


pointment. But her heart returned at once to its allegiance, 
as she murmured, earnestly, » Though He slay me, yet will I 
trust in Him ! ” 

“Thank God !” exclaimed Robert, with a sigh of relief. 
Then, seating himself by her side, he told her all, — leaving 
no room for hope to allure her with its false light, — judging 
rightly, that thus would she best be prepared to meet the sor- 
rowing life to which she seemed inevitably doomed. It was a 
long, sad tale, to which she listened in such painful silence ; 
and though the voice, whose tones fell on her ear like pleas- 
ant memories of the past, was full of tender sympathy, she 
heeded naught save the terrible certainty that her darling 
children were lost to her beyond all hope. The perfidy of her 
husband, and the fearful retribution which followed, however 
it might at another time have afiected her, now produced no 
visible emotion ; and Robert began to think she scarce heard 
his words, till, as he closed, she exclaimed, “ Leave me for a 
little time alone. But come again this afternoon, my dear 
brother.” 

Why did those words, so plaintively uttered, grate so 
harshly on his ear, as he left her presence ? A brother's love 
was all he claimed — why could he not be satisfied ? 

Warm and friendly were the greetings bestowed on Robert 
by Squire Clayton and his wife, as he entered their sitting- 
room that afternoon. And Anna, too, was there, with a 
deeper shade of sadness on her brow. But the eye which 
met his^as calm and clear. Those hours of silent heart- 
struggles — none may know their secrets. But the sweet 
expression of resignation resting on her face told the power 
of a faith which could thus triumph in that mother’s heart. 

14 


158 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Kobert saw and felt its influence, while he mentally resolved 
that so bright an example should not be lost on him. 

Anna has told us of your toils and sufferings for her 
sake,” said Mrs. Clayton. “ Our warmest thanks would fall 
so far short of the obligation we feel, that I am almost 
ashamed to offer them.” 

“ I regret that you should speak of it as an obligation 
conferred,” replied Kobert. “ What I have done is no more 
than any of you would do under the same circumstances. 
That I must return unsuccessful, has been the greatest grief 
of my life ! ” 

“ If I could only know,” said Anna, with a quivering lip, 
“ that they are not in the power of those who would taint 
their pure hearts with their own false worship and dreadful 
heresy, it would alleviate a little of this bitterness ! ” 

“ This is a case, my child,” replied her father, tenderly, 
“ where we must bring not only ourselves, but those precious 
ones, and leave them in the arms of a Saviour, who can keep 
their hearts pure, and their lives in safety, till he sees fit, if 
ever in this world, to restore them unharmed to us.” 

Kobert listened in astonishment; for he had not yet 
learned how much mercy had been mingled in their cup of 
sorrow. 

“ I am rejoiced to hear such sentiments from you, sir,” he 
said ; “ truly, the ways of God are wonderful ! ” 

“ I, alone,” replied the Squire, “ have been the means of 
bringing all this misery upon our house. I ackno^edge it 
with grief, and, could you know all the agony I have suffered 
in consequence, you might be more disposed to pity than blamo 
me. But through such fires the Lord has seen fit to purify 


my soul, and lead me to himself; and now my mouth must 
ever be filled with his praises.” 

Those were manly, tears that now gathered in Robert’s 
eyes ; for he saw how she, the beautiful, the good and pure, 
had been made the sacrifice whose incense brought down such 
blessings. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


** Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy. 

Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ; 

Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 

And bring back the features that joy used to wear.” 

Moore. 

Days and weeks fast glided into months, and still Robert 
lingered, though his heart uttered its loud warnings that thus 
was he destroying its peace. He had loved Anna in years 
past, when no cloud dimmed their vision of happiness as they 
looked forward to a joyful union. But when the dread mo- 
ment came that severed them, and gave her to another, not 
at once did his heart yield to the stern decree. Years and 
years it struggled with its mighty passion, till at length higher 
and holier strength was given him to overcome all earthly 
hopes and desires. Had he met Anna in the bright sunshine 
of happiness ^and prosperity, he might still have remained 
calm and unmoved ; but the answering chord in his own heart 
vibrated to each note of grief as it welled forth from her 
broken spirit. If he had loved the beautiful maiden in her 
bright and joyous days, how did he now revere the no less 
lovely woman, against whom the rude blasts of adversity had 
pitilessly stormed, and who had come forth from it^ ruins 
purified, and, in his estimation, glorified ! And yet, in all 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


161 


th3se weeks and months of daily intercourse, Robert kept 
his heart so strictly guarded, that not a word of love escaped 
his lips, and Anna suspected not its hidden secret. Strange 
to say, his own affairs had never been alluded to by either of 
them; and she, therefore, still remained undeceived with 
regard to his marriage. Whenever she attempted to speak to 
him of his home and his return thither, which she felt could 
not be much longer delayed, her heart silenced the words ere 
they reached her lips. Why, she could not tell ; but she 
shrank from reminding him of dearer ties than those which 
prompted him to remain and comfort her. To her he was the 
devoted brother, whose absence would create such a painful 
void in her heart, that she could not for a moment contemplate 
it with calmness. 

Let us leave her, for a time, to solve the enigma as best 
she may, while we look into the cheerful parsonage, — the 
home of such pure, unalloyed happiness. A new inmate — 
one, too, who seems quite at home — greets us as we enter its 
ever-pleasant sitting-room. J ames Lee — for he it is — had 
followed Robert to Asheville, to see one in whose fate he had, 
from the first, felt such a deep interest. A double motive 
actuated his desire to see her; for, with his usual quiet 
shrewdness, he had penetrated the secret which Robert 
thought so safely locked in his own breast, and, in his warm 
and increasing friendship for one so noble, he watched with no 
little anxiety for the denouement in such a heart’s his- 
tory. He found in Bessie, the pastor’s lovely wife, the 
warmest sympathy, both in his partiality for Robert and his 
intense interest and admiration of Anna. Without relatives, 
with no one spot that he might call home, James Lee had 

14 # 


162 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


been for years a wanderer. Some, who knew him in his 
. youth, spoke of disappointment and affliction , but none knew 
the secret sorrow which sent him forth to spend among strang- 
ers the best years of his life. Wealth had lavished its 
treasures upon him, and he was returning once more to his 
native land, when he met Robert, as we have seen, and his 
lonely heart was at once drawn towards him, and entered with 
zeal into his plans. With the world before him where to choose, 
he yielded alike to his own inclination and Robert’s entrea- 
ties, and Asheville became his home, for the -present, at least. 
In the parsonage — where he was received as a member of 
its happy circle — he found that congeniality which his heart 
had so long desired ; and in a few months he felt more at 
home than he had ever supposed it possible for him to be 
again. 

Mr. Lee,” said Bessie, one day, “ what say you to a ride 

with us to B , my native place ? My husband has a 

little leisure, and proposes to spend to-morrow in rambling 
over scenes so pleasantly familiar to us both.” 

“I will gladly go with thee,” replied he; “friend Her- 
bert shall show me the mine where he found his treasure.” 

“ Who knows but there may yet be some treasure reserved 
for you in that mine?” returned she, laughing. But she in- 
stantly regretted that she had thus spoken, for his brow grew 
sad, as he replied, 

“ When the grave shall yield back its treasures, then may 
I claim mine, but not before.” 

This was the first time he had alluded to himself; and tears 
gathered in Bessie’s eyes as she thought what sad memories 
the past might have garnered for him. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


163 


“ Some time,” said he, noticing her emotion, “ you shall 
hear my story ; but not now. We must carry none but cheer- 
ful faces among your friends.” 

Bessie’s heart throbbed gratefully at the warm and earnest 
welcome which everywhere greeted her from those who loved 
her for her father’s sake, as well as her own. #Iow lovingly 
her eye rested on the dear old manse, the quiet nook in the 
garden, and all the familiar scenes of her childhood ! But to 
the church-yard, that ghcred spot where, reposing in his 
last, long, quiet sleep, lay the form that her childish heart had 
ever idolized, — to that dear grave, watered by so many tears, 
she paid her last tribute, that from thence she might carry to 
her home its holy influences. Long they lingered around that 
spot, for Bessie had glowingly described to her willing lis- 
tener the happy exit of the freed spirit; and Herbert* 
Lindsey’s deep, subdued voice had breathed their hearts’ 
aspirations, while James Lee’s form still bent over that mound, 
as in silent communings with the dead. A low moan sighed 
along the breeze, as it floated past them ; then another and 
another in quick succession followed, and Bessie turned hastily 
around to see whence the sounds proceeded. At a little 
distance from them, on a newly-made grave, knelt a beautiful 
girl of some fifteen summers, her hair in wild disorder, and 
her whole appearance one of utter abandonment to the grief 
which vented itself in sobs and moans. In a moment Bessie 
was at her side. With one arm around her slight form, she gently 
raised her drooping head, when she exclaimed, in surprise, 

“ Why, Nelly ! Can this be you — the bright, joyous little 
girl that danced so gayly among the flowers — mourning in this 


164 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Bad, lonely place ? Why are you here, and whose is this new 
grave ? ” 

The weeping girl pointed to some tablets near by, which had 
not yet been erected. “ There,” said she, “ was the only 
friend I had in this wide world ! ’ 

Bessie looked still more perplexed as she read the inscrip- 
tion, “ Sacredi^o the memory of Miss Nancy Ellis.” Nelly 
saw the look, and replied : 

“ The very day you were married. Miss Bes , I mean 

Mrs. Lindsey, I did something, in my childish thoughtlessness, 
which made her very angry ; and the next day, when I went 
to her to tell her how sorry I was that I had been so wicked, 
I found her crying very hard„ and she said that she had lain 
all night thinking what a disagreeable person she must be to 
make everybody dislike her so, and how lonely and friendless 
she felt ; and then she asked me if I would not come and live 
with her, and try to love her, and she would be a mother to 
me. Well has she kept her promise, Mrs. Lindsey, to the 
poor orphan-pauper ; but now she is laid here, and I am again 
alone ! ” Here her fast-flowing tears choked her further utter- 
ance. 

“ But have you no friends, — I mean, no relatives ? ” asked 
Bessie, as she gently pressed the poor girl’s hand. 

“ None in the world, that I know of,” replied she. “ I have 
no remembrance of any other home than the poor-house from 
which Miss Nancy took me, and to which I must now return.” 

“ Not if I can prevent it,” said Mr. Lee, who had drawn 
near them unobserved, and heard all that passed. “ I, too, am 
alone in this world,” added he; “and would gladly bind 
something to my heart to love and cherish. Wilt thou, dear 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


165 


girl receive one in the place of her thou hast lost, who by 
her grave promises to thee a father’s care and affection ? ” 

Nelly looked up earnestly into the kindly-beaming eye bent 
upon her ; child as she was in thought and feeling, what she 
read there spoke peace to her heart and hopeful trust, and 
she involuntarily clasped the hand extended to her, while, with 
charming naivete, she replied, 

“ And will you love the poor orphan girl as though she 
were your own dear child ? ” 

“ Yerily I will,” he answered, with deep emotion, as mem- 
ory held before his vision the sweet cherub image of his own 
lost one. 

All this had passed quickly — so quickly that Bessie and 
her husband still stood in wondering astonishment ; and yet 
the newly-adopted father and daughter felt that they were no 
longer strangers to each other. That solemn compact, so 
simply made, though fraught with momentous results — did 
not the silent voices of the sleepers beneath whisperingly echo 
it along, till, as it was registered above, <me harp louder tuned 
its song of praise ? 

Bessie readily consented to receive Nelly into her own 
home till Mr. Lee could make suitable provision for her edu- 
cation; and a cheerful, 'happy group they were, as they re- 
turned to her hospitable roof. 

“Now, Mr. Lee,” said she, “what did I tell you? haven’t 
you found your treasure ? ” 

“ Yerily thou hast almost a prophet’s tongue, Bessie,” he 
replied, laughing, “if it always serves thee as now.” 

“ See ! ” she answered, pointing to the window ; “ it needs 
no tongue of prophecy to predict the happiness there is in 


166 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


store for Kobert Graham. Look at him; what has come 
over him ? ” 

As she spoke, Robert crossed the street, and, looking up, 
his eye met her inquiring glance, when a smile, bright and 
joyful, lighted up his face, and with a quick step he entered 
the room where they were sitting. But, while he is attempting 
to answer all the questions so rapidly pressed upon him, let 
us look back a little, and see what has thus agitated one 
usually so calm. 

For many days past Robert had subjected himself to the 
most severe self-scrutiny, determined that no longer would he 
be blind to the true state of his heart. He had tried to sub- 
due his deep passion into a calm, tranquil, though tender fra- 
ternal affection ; but it was in vain, so long as he witnessed 
the increasing loveliness of Anna’s character. He must leave 
her, and that, too, at once, lest he should waver in his resolu- 
tion to claim no more than a brother’s love. Again must he 
go forth to wage- anew the war within his own breast, but not, 
as before, in his own strength. Already he felt a sustaining 
power within him to meet even this trial, and, with a calmness 
which surprised himself, he sought Anna that morning for a 
last interview. He found her alone, busily engaged with her 
needle, but sad, as usual. 

“ Anna,” said he, cheerfully, “ are you not almost ashamed 
of such a lazy brother? Only think how long I have been 
about here, doing nothing.” 

“ Do you call it nothing,” she replied, “ to bring so much 
sunshine into our hearts and home ? ” 

“ Indeed, I do not ; I bless God, and ever shall, for per- 


ANNA CLAYTON, 


167 


mitting me to be near you in your distress but, now that you 
no longer need me, I must away to other duties.” 

The work dropped from Anna’s hand, and a tear trembled 
in her eye as she spoke. 

“ I will try not to be so selfish,” she said ; “ but, 0, how 
lonely it will be when you are gone ! ” 

“ Can I, then, add so much to your happiness? ” he asked, 
earnestly. 

“ Most assuredly, Robert ; have you not been to me the 
kindest of all brothers ? 

Again his heart rebelled ; but she suspected it not. “ Who 
could or would have done what you have ? ” she continued, 
artlessly ; “ and then, too, from you I have learned how the 
heart may yield up all its treasures with a calm and perfect 
trust in God. 0, Robert, you have indeed nobly performed 
your mission, and I will not murmur that voices from your 
own home lure you back ; but will you not, when there, some- 
times breathe a prayer for the lonely, childless one ? ” 

Her tears fell fast, but they were all unheeded by him who 
sat at her side, his head buried in his hands, and his soul in 
wild commotion. He had heard but one thing in all she said ; 
one idea only possessed him ; — what did she mean by his 
own home ? Caiiid she suppose there were others dearer to 
him than herself? What strange joy thrilled his breast, as, 
for one moment, his heart pleaded eagerly to be heard, that, 
perchance, it might awaken some response to its long years 
of faithfulness ; nor did its throbbings cease as he answered, 
tremulously, “ My prayers, dear Anna, will ever be yours ; 
but to what home you would consign me, I know not. I have 
neither friends nor home away from here.” 


168 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ I thought, Robert,” — and her voice faltered a very little, 
— “I thought you were long since married, and — ” 

“ Thought I was married, Anna ! ” he exclaimed, in a voice 
half-joyful, half-reproachful ; “ how could you think so ? ” 
“Where, then, did you just now speak of going?” she 
asked, evading his last query. 

“Anywhere, Anna, so that I may teach this heart the 
lesson it once learned — only to forget ! ” 

She looked up inquiringly. 

Hopes, fears and resolutions, were alike forgotten then, as 
he passionately clasped her hand, exclaiming, “ Anna, are all 
the dreams of our youth forgotten? Does memory never 
awaken echoes from the past, when, before these years of 
blight and sorrow, we were happy — O, so happy in each 
other’s love! Forgive me, Anna,” he continued, as she 
gently withdrew her hand to hide her tearful face, “ that I 
have thus unconsciously betrayed myself. I came here with 
a farewell upon my lips — a farewell that you, perhaps, would 
apjprove ; but in these last few moments hope has whispered 
such a wild dream of joy into my heart, that I cannot now 
leave you, save at your bidding, till all the hopes and fears 
with which I have ineffectually struggled, and from which I 
cannot fly, are confided to you.” 

He paused a moment, and watched earnestly the trembling 
hands which still covered her face ; then, gathering courage 
from her silence, he bent low his head near her own, and in 
the same deep tones with which he had won her youthful 
love did he now breathe into her listening ear the hoarded 
secret of years. He told her all — all that he had suffered 
in his wanderings afar off, when he had striven by every 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


169 


means to banish her image from his heart ; how that, in the 
whirl of business, when fortune seemed but to mock him with 
her golden favors, or in the midst of beauteous and high-born 
maidens, whose Winning smiles would have warmed into life 
hearts less stoical than his ; whether roaming by sea or land 
alone, or surrounded by warm, friendly voices, his heart had 
ever turned, hopelessly, indeed, but unalterably, to her. And 
when, in his intense desire to witness her happiness, which 
alone, he felt, would reconcile him to his fate, he sought again 
his home, who could picture his agony as the first news of that 
dreadful tragedy reached his ear, and he knew that the hap- 
piness, and perhaps life, of her he loved, was crushed, and 
that, too, by one who should have cherished her as a rare 
gift ! In his grief he called upon Bessie, and besought her to 
gain for him a place — a brother’s place — by the bedside of 
the woe-stricken mother ; and, as day after day he listened to 
her piteous ravings, and found that his voice alone had power 
to soothe her frenzy, and his was the hand she unconsciously 
clasped in preference to all others, then he felt, in all its 
weight, the humiliating truth that not as a brother did he love 
the wife of another. What hours of anguish he endured, 
none might know; but gradually a divine light stole gently and 
sweetly within his soul, and taught him a higher and holier 
love. And when he went forth thankful that his fortune 
could now be spent in her service, no other hope incited him, 
in his ceaseless ejGforts, save that he might be permitted to 
restore happiness to the desolated heart. That for a moment 
a thrill of joy had swept through his heart when he knew she 
was free, he confessed ; but he had since been made to feel 
that the dark wave which so mercilessly engulfed her had 
15 


170 


ANNA OLA TTQN. 


hid, with its black crest, all the brightness of her young life. 
0, how earnestly he had prayed that this night of sorrow 
might pass away ! but now he must leave her ; "no longer will 
he deceive her or his own heart in its passionate pleadings 
for a dearer, tenderer tie than sister. He would not have 
thus betrayed his love, had not something within whispered 
of hope and joy. 

Thus did that noble heart, now for the first time in years 
uttering its own language, pour forth its hidden treasures in 
the deep stillness of that hour. The agitated form, the trem- 
bling hands, which still concealed her face, and from beneath 
which tear-drops fell fast and warm, were as yet her only 
response ; but, as he paused, and in a voice of intense emotion 
exclaimed, “ Speak to me, Anna T say that you forgive me ! ” 
she gently laid one trembling hand in his, and murmured, “ O, 
Robert, you have not deserved such suffering. If this poor, 
worthless hand cau repay you — ” 

“ Nay, nay, Anna,” cried he, interrupting her, while his 
whole frame shook with agitation ; “ not from gratitude can I 
receive this priceless boon.” 

“ From the love^ then, of a heart which, though blighted 
and withered, turns with its first and only affection to that 
faithful breast! ” — and she leaned her head upon his shoulder, 
weeping in her joy. 


How swiftly flew the hours of that day, and what wonder 
that Robert’s step was quick, and his heart light, as at night- 
fall he entered the parsonage, in his unutterable happiness. 

“ Now are my prayers answered,” said Bessie, with suf- 
fused eyes, as he told her of his great joy, while the no less 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


171 


sympathizing “ Friend ” raised his hands, and feelingly ex- 
claimed, 

“ God be thanked, friend Kobert, that thy noble, self-sacri- 
ficing life is at last rewarded ; may the blessing thou so richly 
deservest rest upon thee both.” 

Quiet and simple were the preparations for their speedy 
marriage ; for Kobert insisted, and not without reason, that 
there was no occasion for delay. 

On the bright and cloudless morning they had chosen for 
their nuptials the bridal party silently assembled around the 
altar, and while Herbert Lindsey’s deep voice, tremulous 
with unwonted agitation, echoed through those sacred walls, 
the low-murmured responses of the marriage vow broke from 
the lips of the trembling bride with sad earnestness. Even 
in this hour of sacred joy, the nwther could mt forget ! 


j 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


« 0, what a tangled web we weave, 

When first we practise to deceive ! ”, 

Scott. 

At the lower end of the spacious garden, adjoining the 
chateau we have before described, was an arbor of exquisite 
workmanship ; a source of unceasing admiration to the few 
who were admitted within those private walks, but who little 
suspected its hidden purpose. 

The dense forest, whose grim heads nodded as they peered 
over the high enclosure, seemed not more impenetrable than 
were its mysteries to Ralph, the new gardener. Now, Ralph, 
like many others, beneath a stupid and most forbidding exte- 
rior possessed an active and inquiring mind. Ignorant he 
was, most certainly, and superstitiously devoted to the wor- 
ship of the Blessed Virgin. Perhaps for these very reasons 
Bernaldi regarded him as well fitted for his service ; and, 
therefore, he had, with many instructions and warnings, in- 
stalled him in his new station, about two weeks previous to 
the time to which we refer. Ralph’s restless, inquisitive eyes, 
shaded by their huge, shaggy brows, had oPen watched with 
no little 3uriosity the peculiar care with which Father Ber- 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


173 


naldi guarded the beautiful arbor. Implicitly believing iu 
the unlimited spiritual power of his confessor, the simple 
gardener began to think that this might be the entrance to 
those purgatorial fires with which he had been so often 
threatened. 

“ I ’se bound to find out suthing ’bout it,” muttered he, one 
afternoon, as he hid himself among the bushes, where he could, 
unobserved, command a view of the entrance ; “ ’cause, ye 
see, I an’t allers jest so good, and maybe I ’d get a push 
down there afore I knowed it. Catch this old feller a-stayin’ 
so nigh that hot place, I tell ye ! ” 

Just then his cogitations were cut short by the appearance 
of Bernaldi, who, gliding along the path which led to the 
arbor, looked cautiously about him, and, taking from his pocket 
a key, opened the mysterious door, unconscious that a pair of 
great rolling eyes were peering at him through the bushes. 
Before he closed it, those eyes had scanned every inch of the 
simple structure, though in so doing they had well-nigh be- 
trayed themselves. 

After waiting a few moments in silence, Balph distinctly 
heard the click of another door as it opened and shut ; while 
a confused mingling of voices and trampling of feet sounded 
to his excited imagination like the struggling of fiends to 
escape from their confinement. Not another moment did he 
lose ; but, springing from his place of concealment, he rushed 
through the garden, and, overturning everything that came in 
his way, plunged into the kitchen, in terrible agitation. 

« I tell ye — I te-11 ye — I te-e-11 ye, Judy,” he chattered 
through his teeth, while his great sturdy frame shook like an 
15 * 


174 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


aspen-leaf, \vith fright, I te-11 ye, we ’re livin’ in a dreflful 
dangerous place.” 

The portly cook, who, at his first appearance, had dropped 
the dish in her hand, and stood, with uplifted arms, gazing in 
^^onishment at such an apparition, exclaimed, 

' “ Goodness gracious, Ralph, what is the matter ? ” 

. “ 0-h, Judy ! ” said he, turning round to see that the evil 
spirits were^not already at his heels, “ we’re on the brink o’ 
pardition, we be, and afore ye knows it we shall all be pitched 
in. I he’erd ’em jest now, the devils ! ” and he dropped on 
his knees, before a rude crucifix in the corner, muttering 
prayers and telling beads with such vehemence that Judy 
was overcome with his devotion, and kneeled too, though 
she hadn’t the most remote idea what she was praying 
against. 

“ Come, now,” said she, as his excitement was somewhat 
abated by this cooling process, “ tell me what ’t was scared 
you so — there an’t no devils round here, be they ? ” 

“ I ’spect there is, and I ’se for making tracks quick, I tell 
ye. Maybe ye don’t know how nigh ye are to purgatory, 
hey, Judy? Wal, now, I ’ll jest tell you ; ye ’re jest as fur 
off as the bottom of the garden, and no furder.” Here Ralph 
brought down his fist with such force on the table that poor 
J udy was struck with terror. 

“ Laws a massy, what do you mean, Ralph ? ” cried she ; 
“ a-scaring a poor widder woman that has n’t got nobody to 
go to ! ” 

“ Don’t be afeared, Judy ; I ’ll take care on ye, if ye ’ll only 
git away from here, quick as pos-5er-ble^’ 

“ What would their reverences say ? ” asked the cook. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


175 


Kaiph’s ccurage visibly forsook him at this question ; for, 
in his fright, he had not thought of bishop or priest. 

“ Tell ye what, I don’t know,” he answered ; “ but, when 
the devil ’s at your heels, what ye ’goin’ to do? ” 

“ Whatd'jQ see, Kalph, anyhow?” asked Judy, who felt 
rather disposed to look into the matter a little before taking 
such a decided step. 

“ I seed enuf, and he’erd enuf, to scare a nigger. In the 
first place, I seed his ruv’rence go right down into the bowels 
o’ the airth, and then I he’erd skh noises ! — 0, lud, ’t would 
turn ye rite inter stone.” 

“ You don’t, though ! where was it? ” said Judy, trembling 
all over. 

“ Did n’t I tell ye ’t was rite down to the bottom o’ that 
garden — that little house an’t rigged up so for nothin’. 
There ’s suthin’ ’sterious ’bout it, ye might know, when his 
ruv’rence goes in there every day, and sometimes don’t come 
out agin till the next day. I ’ve had my ’spicions afore now, 
I tell ye ! ” 

By this time Judy had recovered herself sufficiently to ask 
a few more questions, which drew the whole story from Ralph, 
when an inkling of the truth flashed upon her mind. Stand- 
ing before him, her arms akimbo, and her little gray eyes 
sparkling with vexation and mirth, she poured forth her 
reproaches in no very measured strains. 

“ Laws a massy ! ” exclaimed she, “ you old fool, you dolt, 
you curmudgeon, a-comin’ here to ’sturb my rest, jest ’cause 
you ’spects, when there an’t nothin’ to ’spect for ! Don’t 
you know, you lubber, that master goes in there to see the 
children ? ” 


176 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“Where? what children?” broke in Kalph, rubbing hia 
eyes, in amaiement. 

“ 0, go ’long, ye greeny ! If ye don’t know now, I ’m good 
mind not to tell ye. You ’ve frightened me so, now, I shan’t 
sleep a wink to-night.” 

“ Wal ! ” said Kalph, drawing himself up, with as much 
dignity as he could, after the storm, “ ye can tell me or not, 
jest as ye please; but, if there an’t some circumboberation 
about that little house, then my name an’t Kalph Kiley, 
that ’s all ! ” 

’T was astonishing what efifect his eloquence had upon Miss 
J udy ; for, wiping the perspiration from her smooth, round 
face, she sat down and began at once to tell him what she 
knew about it. 

“ A year ago or thereabouts,” said she, “ a poor widder 
woman, like me, only she was a lady, sent for his reverence, 
my master, ’cause she was a-dyin’, and wanted absolution. 
So, when he went to see her and give her the blessed sacra- 
ment, she begged him to take her two little children and 
bring ’em up for the church. Ye see some o’ her wicked 
relations wanted to get ’em and make heretics of ’em, and it 
a’most killed her for fear they would. So, when she died, 
what does good Father Bernaldi do, but he fixes up as nice a 
house as ever you seed, and puts ’em in there to live, where 
those wicked folks can’t find ’em. There can’t nobody get at 
’em, only through the garden ; and that ’s why he keeps it 
locked all the time. He ’s terrible fond of ’em, and that ’s 
where he goes when you see him go through that little house. 
I ’spose you he’erd ’em all runnin’ and talkin’ to-day when ho 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


177 


went in, and that ’s what scared you so. Ha ! ha ' ha ! What 
a fool you was ! ” 

Ralph did n’t quite like the conclusion of the matter, but 
he was too much interested to notice it ; so he very mildly 
asked “ how old were the children, and had anybody tried to 
get ’em, and where could the house be ? ” 

“ Tried ! Laws, yes ! A man all whiskered up, and portendin’ 
to be a gentleman, was round here, and then cum back, with 
another funny-looking man, and they tried every way, but 
they could n’t get no news of ’em. I ’d a fought myself afore 
they’d a got ’em, the miserable .heretics! Little Charlie is 
a’ most five and Myrtie two year old, and sweeter youngsters 
never lived. To be sure, their house was lonesome-like, but 
’t was a pretty walk through the woods. Some day, when 
master ’s willing, we ’ll go and see ’Cln.” 

Judy had grown fairly eloquent as she concluded her tale, 
and Ralph must be forgiven if he forgot his fright, the ar- 
bor, children and everything else, in his profound admiration 
of the being before him. Certain it is that voices were heard 
much later than usual, that night, in the housekeeper’s room, 
and Ralph smacked his lips more than once, the next day, in 
a sort of dreamy remembrance of “ joys that ‘ he ’d ’ tasted.” 

The little thatched cottage, so lovingly nestled in the midst 
of a green thicket, seemed strangely isolated and lonely. 
Save a little spot, which had been cleared around it, and 
which busy hands had made to bloom with beauty, all was dark 
and gloomy as the grave. Little, curious, prying feet, had 
often trod on the verge of the thick copse which surrounded 
it, and peered with eager eyes into the mysteries beyond, but 


178 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


never ventured a step further. Strange home for the wamii 
expanding sympathies of childhood to be nurtured in ! and 
yet, here, hidden from the agonized search of loving friends, 
with none but cold hearts to rest upon, dwelt the mother’s 
treasures. O, why do not the birds, in their free, joyous 
flight, bear over land and sea, to one longing ear, the piteous 
wailings of those little hearts, for “ mamma, dear mamma ” ? 

It was just one year, Bernaldi remembered, as, carefully 
removing some clustering vines, he opened the secret door, 
from which a path wound circuitously to the lone cottage, 
and which, indeed, was the only entrance to that spot, — it was 
just one year since he had accomplished the most daring feat 
he ever attempted ; and a smile of triumph lighted his dark 
face, as he thought how ingeniously he had thwarted all search, 
and how securely he now held the little defenceless ones in 
his own grasp. It was no part of his plan to be repulsive to 
them, and therefore he was far from being displeased at the 
shout of joy and clapping of little bands with which his ap- 
pearance was hailed : so instinctively will childhood’s heart 
cling to some object of love. As usual, he had plenty of bon- 
bons which he scattered in their path, with a few words to 
the girl who accompanied them, and then he passed on to the 
cottage. 

Its few rooms were fitted up with neatness, taste, and even 
elegance ; for money had not been sparingly bestowed, before 
death claimed the misguided father — and the. church had 
weighty reasons for continuing these luxuries. One room 
alone remained untouched ; its bare and comfortless walls 
and floor, with its rudely-constructed altar and solemn cruci- 
fix, had oft bore witness to the austere devotion performed 
there. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


179 


At this very hour, before that crucifix kneeled the form 
of a woman habited in the garb of a sister of charity. None 
knew the long hours she had thus prostrated herself, or wit- 
nessed the fierce conflict raging within her breast. Remorse 
was a strange guest there, and, as it pointed with its long, 
{spectral finger to the records of the past, or turned with grim 
and savage menaces to the future, her soul writhed in its 
merciless torture. 

“ 0, blessed Mother ! ” she cried, “ save me from this hour, 
and with my life will I make reparation to those whom I 
have wronged I O, most holy Virgin ! hear the vows which I 
now make to thee, ere my soul sinks, in its guilt — ” 

A low, mocking laugh broke painfully on the stillness of 
that moment, and caused the devotee to spring hastily to her 
feet, while the indignant blood mounted to her temples ; for 
well she knew the voice — it had been to her both the light 
and curse of her life. 

“ What spot on earth can ever be secure from your intru- 
sion ? ” haughtily demanded she of him who had thus rudely 
shocked her better feelings. * 

“ Softly, softly, my good Marguerite,” replied the intruder ; 
“ don’t let your hasty temper get the better of your judgment ! 
I was only laughing at the penance you would inflict on your- 
self for an imaginary wrong. You are really growing very 
zealous.” 

“ Ay, scoff at me, and scorn me too, if you will, for being 
just what you have made me ! O, Alphonso, would to God 
I had never seen you ! Then had not these hands been steeped 
in every crime.” 

“ Why, Marguerite ! ” said he, in a tone which he well knew 


180 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


would reach her heart, “ you are in a strange mood to-day ; 
what has come over you ? ” 

“ I scarcely know, myself,” she replied ; “ but since morn- 
ing I have had the strangest feelings ! It was just a year 
ago to-day, you know, that we took those children, and all 
day long it has seemed to me I could hear their mother’s 
terrible shrieks. It is foolish, I know, but I often wish I had 
never seen them.” 

“ Marguerite, bewarej, ” sternly uttered the priest. “ These 
wicked fancies are treason to the church, and deserve her 
heaviest punishment. Have you no loVe for the souls of the 
dear children, that you regret saving them from those abomi- 
nable heretics ? Had you never done any other service, this 
alone would canonize you; but beware how you impiously 
provoke the wrath of the bishop, who, for this very act, has 
granted you special indulgences, and who has the power at 
any moment to retract them, and deliver you over to perdi- 
tion.” 

His words had the desired effect, for her momentary repent- 
ance imbsided at once into her usual abject servility, and she 
humbly knelt at the confessional, giving every thought and 
feeling to the keeping of a frail mortal like herself. The 
world looks on and calls this a “ harmless infatuation ; ” but 
can that be harmless which gives to man the censorship of the 
soul ? 

Bernaldi’s suspicions were aroused ; he had several times 
before surprised Marguerite in tears, but never till this inter- 
view did he imagine the cause. When he selected her as a 
fit accomplice in his cold-blooded deed of child-robbery, and 
gave to her the mother’s task of rearing them, he was not 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


181 


mistaken in her fitness for the work. She had been too long 
under his tutelage to shrink from any crime, and her instinct- 
ive hatred toward everything good had been fully gratified in 
the deathless misery she had helped to bring upon one whose 
only fault was her goodness. But a year’s companionship 
with the artless innocence and purity of childhood had softened 
her nature, and awakened latent hopes and desires, of which 
she was as yet scarcely conscious. Thoughts of her own 
bright and happy youth, till the shadow of the deceiver fell 
on her path, — the days and years of alternate sin and sorrow 
which darkened her life and hardened her heart, till she 
seemed the veriest wretch on earth, — would force themselves 
upon her conscience, as they had done this day, and lead her ' 
to penances the most revolting, in the vain hope that they 
would remove the plague-spot from her soul ! 

Bernaldi saw all this ; he knew, even better than she did, 
the workings of her mind ; and, while he dared not remove her 
from the sweet childish influences which had produced this 
effect, he determined to watch her more closely, and to bring 
her oftener to confession, that so he might use more effectu- 
ally the unbounded influence he had ever possessed over her, 
to prevent any serious results. 

“ Come, Marguerite,” said he, gayly, “ let ’s away with these 
sad, gloomy thoughts, and discuss, over a cup of your nice tea, 
more cheerful topics. You will soon get over these idle 
whims, and laugh your own folly. But where are Charlie 
and Myrtie ? Ah ! here they come, the darling little things ! 
How they will learn to thank you, a few years hence, for 
bringing them into our holy church ! ” 

“0, Margery!” cried little Charlie, bounding into the 

16 


182 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


room, followed by his wee, toddling sister, “ se6 what nice 
things the ‘ good father ’ gave me ! Here ’s some for you ; 
and he held out his little, plump hand filled with sweetmeats, 
while Myrtie seated herself on the floor, and began munching 
hers as though there was not another person in the world to 
care for. 

“You’re a generous little felloWj Charlie, but Margery 
does n’t want any now.” 

He looked up wonderingly in her face at such a refusal, 
and his quick eye detected the traces of tears. Instantly tho 
little hand dropped its load, and he sprang into her lap and 
threw his arms about her neck. 

“ What does poor Margery cry for ? Have you lost your 
mamma, too ? ” asked he, tenderly, ever connecting tears with 
such a loss. 

“No, darling, ‘poor Margery’ hasn’t got any mamma; — 
but you are her little boy, and will let her be your mamma, 
won’t you? ” and she stroked his fair hair, lovingly. 

“ No, no, not my niamma ! ” cried he, earnestly, “ but my 
dear, good Margery.” 

“ And why not your mamma ? ” Bernaldi asked, amused at 
his earnestness. 

“Because — because,” said the little fellow, with a per- 
plexed look, “ I ’ve got one mamma away over the water, and 
some day, when I ’m a man, I shall go and find her — shan’t 
I, Margery ? ” ^ 

“ Perhaps so,”, replied she, trembling at Bernaldi’s darkened 
look. 

“ No, you won’t ! ” said he, sharply ; “ she ’s a wicked woman, 
and you must never call her mamma again — do you hear ? ” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


183 


— and he jerked the little arm, — “ mind you never say that 
again, or I shall put you into a dark hole, and keep you there 
till you die ! ” 

“ Should I go to heaven, then ? ” asked Charlie, with a 
quivering lip. 

“ You ’d go right to purgatory, where all wicked boys go ! 
said the priest, angrily. 

“ But if I kneeled down and prayed, just as Aunty Bessie 
used to, then God would take me to heaven, — would n’t he, 
Margery ? ” 

“ No, no, my child,” replied she ; “ you are very wicked to 
talk so ! You must pray just as I teach you to. Here, kneel 
down and ask the ‘good father’ to forgive you for such naughty 
words.” 

The little fellow did as he was told. But hiJchilaish heart 
throbbed with a sense of injustice and wrong, and drew more 
closely within itself the image of his dear, lost mamma, — * 
that image which time, with all its changes, could never 
eiBFace. 

Child as he was when torn from his mother’s arms, the 
scene was forever engraved upon his memory, — nor could 
persuasions, threats or diversion, still his incessant cries for 
“ mamma” for many a weary day, as the vessel bore away its 
precious load, widening the gulf between those loving hearts. 
Her look of imploring agony, as she clutched the carriage- 
wheel in a vain effort to stop its course, and was brutally 
knocked away, reached that child-heart, never, never to be 
forgotten. He seemed instinctively to know the base part his 
father bore in that terrible transaction ; for he shunned, with 
utter aversion, every attempt to conciliate him, and clung 


184 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


rather to the stranger priest and his new nurse. His baby- 
sister, the darling Myrtie; ibecame his great care ; and upon 
her would he lavish all the endearments with which his little 
heart was filled. Lady Duncan he would never call “ grand- 
mamma,” for to him that title belonged only to the dear old 
familiar face in his own mamma’s home ; and he was better 
pleased with the lonely, quiet cottage, and only Marguerite 
and Myrtie for company, than in the rich halls of his father’s 
house. So they had but little trouble in secluding their 
orphaned treasures, while the mission of these child-angels 
worked silently its way into the hearts of those about them. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


** Foul whisperings are abroad ; and unnat’ral deeds 
Do breed unnat’ral troubles : infected minds 
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.” 

“ Leave her to heaven. 

And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, 

To prick and sting her.” Shakspeare. 

“ Fool ! ” muttered Bernaldi to himself, as he retraced his 
steps to the chateau. “Women are always fools about chil- 
dren ! I thought she was made of better stuff than most of 
them, though. But I ’ll have no more of it ; I ’ll put a stop 
to it, if I have to stop her breath. Marguerite, ever ready to 
do my bidding, to be cajoled by those brats ! Pshaw ! what 
an absurdity ! But I ’ll manage her yet, if she don’t take 
care.” So saying, he passed quietly through the arbor, and 
confronted Ralph just as the latter was peering through 
every crevice in the wall to get a glimpse beyond. 

“ Ralph, what are you doing there?” said he, quickly. 

“ Yur ruv’rence, sir,” answered the gardener, bowing low, 
“ I was looking after an animal as run into that hole.” 

“ What sort of an animal ? ” 

“ Wal, yur ruv’rence, it looked mighty like a cat, only 
’t war n’t bigger ’n a squirrel.” 

16 * 


186 


iNNA CLAYTON. 


“ Pooh ! you foolish fellow, ’t was a weasel, I suppose. 
You must look out for the poultry, Ralph, or he will make 
his supper out of them.” 

“ Yes, sir, your ruv’rence,” said Ralph, placing his fore- 
finger on his nose in a quizzical manner, as .he turned away. 

“ Look here, Ralph,” said Bernaldi, coming back, as a sud- 
den thought seemed to strike him ; “ did Judy ever tell you 
anything — about — what was beyond that arbor, there ? ” 

“ Not ’zactly, yur ruv’rence.” 

“ What da she tell you, Ralph?” 

“ Wal, she said yur ruv’rence was mighty kind to the 
poor, and was bringin’ some on ’em up summers round 
here.” 

“ Was that dLl she told you, Ralph?” 

“ It ’s all I remember, yur ruv’rence.” Ralph was an 
adept at mental reservation. 

“ I am very glad to find Judy is so discreet,” added Ber- 
naldi. “ But, Ralph, you seem to be an honest, well-disposed 
person ; supposing I should tell you a secret, and need your 
assistance, could you be trusted ? ” 

“ Ay, yur ruv’rence. Ralph Riley can be trusted any- 
where,” answered he, with growing importance. 

“ But if the secret concerned our holy church, and you 
betrayed it, do you know the penance, Ralph ? ” 

“ To die a dog’s death, I s’pose,” growled Ralph ; “ it ’s no 
more ’n I ’d deserve.” 

“ Worse than that, Ralph. When you were dead your 
body would be thrown to the dogs, and your soul cursed into 
hell ! ” 

Poor Ralph’s knees knocked together very perceptibly at 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


187 


the stern manner and words of his master ; and, devoutly 
crossing hi uself, he awaited any further communications. 

“ But I know,” continued Bernaldi, encouragingly, “ you 
would sooner die than be guilty of anything so wicked. I see 
that I can trust you, now ; so, listen to me attentively, and 
remember all I say.” 

“ I will, yur ruv’rence.” And Balph drew a long breath 
of relief. 

“ About a year ago,” began Bernaldi, seating himself on 
a rustic bench, while the gardener stood, hat in hand, in serf- 
like subjection, “ I was sent for to see a poor woman who 
was dying, and who was in great distress because some of her 
husband’s relations wanted to get her two little children and 
make heretics of them.” 

“ 0 — h ! ” groaned his listener. 

“Well, you know, I could n’t resist the poor woman’s en- 
treaties ; and so, before she would receive the holy sacrament, 
I promised I would see that they were brought up in the true 
faith. You ought to have seen how happy this promise made 
her, and how, after a good confession, she placed her soul in 
the hands of the church, that masses might be said over her 
till she was fit for the society of the Blessed Virgin. Such 
a death as hers was glorious, Balph ; for she lived a good 
Catholic, and now we have prayed her soul through pur- 
gatory.” 

Balph bowed, with profound humility. 

“ But no sooner was she dead than those wretches — those 
vile heretics — tried to take away the children ; and I had 
to hide them away from their wicked hands. Now, Balph, 
what I want to tell you is this. Those little children that I 


188 - 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


saved from destruction live in a nice cottage in those woods^ 
yonder, and the only way to get there is through that door 
where you saw me come out just now. The boy has got some 
strange notions in his head from his father’s folks ; and we 
must get them out of him. Do you think I can trust you, 
Ralph, to keep these gates all locked, and, if any one asks 
you questions about the children, to say you ‘ know nothing ’ 
of them, and to keep a sharp lookout towards everybody that 
comes here?” 

“ Trust me for all them things,” answered he, with a know- 
ing shake of his shaggy head. 

“ That ’s right, Ralph ; you know what becomes a good 
Catholic when these heretics try to cheat us.” 

“ Give ’em what they deserve,” said Ralph, warming with 
the subject. “ If they come near me with any of their infer- 
nal stuff, they ’ll get it, I tell ye, yur ruv’rence.” 

Bernaldi smiled encouragingly at his earnestness; and 
Ralph, thus emboldened, went on : 

“I han’t lived all these long years for nothin’, I tell 
ye ; Ralph Riley ’s the man that knows what he ’s about. If 
any o’ them devils come prowlin’ round here after the poor 
little innocents, they ’ll git the power o’ me, I tell ye, yur 
ruv’rence.” 

His “ruv’rence” did not seem inclined to check the 
ardor of his servant in the least, but said, as he rose to go : 

“ I have no doubt you will do all that ’s right, Ralph ; and, 
as I am going away for two or three weeks, I shall feel quite 
safe to leave things with you. There ’s one thing more, though, 
I want to speak to you about ; but, for the price of your soul, 
don’t you dare mention what I say to any one. The woman 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


189 


in there, who takes care of the children, appears rather 
strange lately ; now, you must watch her closely, and tell me, 
when I come back, everything she has said and done. Do you 
understand ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, yur ruv’rence.” 

“Well, now come in with me, till I make your promise, 
sure.” 

Ralph followed his master’s steps into a small room, and, 
kneeling as he was bid before the cross, laid his hand on the 
Bible, and swore solemnly, by the Blessed Virgin and all the 
saints, to be and do everything his priest commanded him. 
When he returned again to the garden, it was with a much 
greater consciousness of his own superiority than he had ever 
felt before. 

“ Now I ’m in for ’t,” said he, rubbing his hands, with great 
satisfaction j “see if Ralph Riley don’t know a thing or two, 
that ’s all ! ” 


“ I am vexed, heartily vexed,” said Bernaldi, as he entered 
the library, to its only occupant. “ I wish there were no such 
things as women in the world ! ” 

“ I don’t believe you would stay in it long, then,” replied 
the other, laughing ; “ but what ’s the matter now ? ” 

“ If Marguerite can’t be trusted,” added Bernaldi, without 
noticing the jest, “ who is there that can ? ” 

“Why, what makes you think she isn’t trustworthy?” 
asked his companion, a little anxiously. 

Bernaldi related the particulars of his visit, while the bishop 
listened attentively. “ This must be looked into a little more 
carefully ” at length said the latter ; “ it will not do to in- 


190 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


dulge her in such whims. She must be removed at once, if 
you suspect any misgivings on her part.” 

“ I think the lesson I gave her to-day will do her some 
good,” replied Bernaldi. “ At any rate, try her till I 
come back ; she can’t do much harm before that. But, if 
you will allow me, sir, I would advise you to look to her 
often.” 

“ I will do so,” said the bishop ; “ yet I should have 
thought her capable of anything but regret.” 

“It is her weakness towards children that causes such 
feelings ; she told me as much herself,” Bernaldi answered. 

“Curse them, and her too!” exclaimed the bishop; 
“ we ’ve got enough to attend to, without so much trouble 
about them ! ” 

“ I have sworn in Ralph, our new gardener, and he 
will keep you informed of all her movements,” said Ber- 
naldi. 

“ Is he safe ? ” 

“Yes; I have made him so, I believe.” 

Ralph, in all the dignity of his new office of spy, walked up 
and down the broad gravelled paths, the morning after his 
memorable interview with his master and priest. Now and 
then he would stop to peer through the interstices in the wall 
into the mysteries beyond; but this did not satisfy him, and, 
taking from his pocket a key, which he looked at with great 
pride, he unlocked the door through which he had gazed in 
his fright the day before, and, imitating as nearly as possible 
the movements of his master, he cautiously closed it, and, 
not without some trembling, found himself within the very 
enclosure he had so carefully scanned. But the last twenty- 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


191 


four hours had been fraught with great events to Ralph ; and 
the consciousness that he was now acting as the confidant 
and agent of his ruv'reme gave him courage. So, the inner 
door was opened, according to his directions, and, looking 
around, he saw nothing but a well-trodden path hedged by 
the thick wood. Naturally far from being courageous, and 
not a little superstitious withal, flalph hesitated before closing 
the door after him ; but the twittering of birds and the 
chirping of squirrels overhead were all the sounds that met 
his ear, and he ventured a little way along, though the slight- 
est sudden noise would have sent him rushing back to his 
quarters. The perfect quietude of the forest seemed to reas- 
sure him, and he followed the beaten track till it led him to an 
opening, where he started back with surprise. 

Ralph’s weakest point, and one which he had always con- 
sidered a failing, was very sensibly affected by the sight which 
here met his gaze, and riveted him to the spot; for on a 
grassy plot before the cottage door sat little Myrtie, her lap 
and chubby arms filled with flowers, joining in Charlie’s glee 
as he danced around her, and clapping her little fat hands for 
joy as he threw a fresh load of glowing roses over her. 

“ Pshaw ! ” said Ralph, brushing away a tear from his 
rough cheek ; “ what do I care for children ? I wish I 
was n’t such a plaguy fool, though ! I won’t mind them, any- 
how ! ” and he strode up to the cottage door, fully determined 
to conquer, for once, this foolish weakness of his nature. 

Charlie and his little sister both sprang at once towards the 
^ door, frightened at the unwonted sight of a strange face ; but 
Myrtie ’s step was not so firm as her brother’s, and, in her 
haste, she fell upon the corner of the door-step, cutting a gash 


192 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


in her temple, which in a moment covered her little face with 
blood. Her screams brought out the only two occupants of 
the cottage at once to her assistance, but not before Ealph 
had caught her in his arms, stanching the wound with his 
handkerchief, and soothing her cries as gently as a woman. 
’T was strange to see that great uncouth being bend so tenderly 
over the little form in his arms ; but stranger still were the 
beatings of that untutored heart beneath its light load, for 
then and there did Ealph, despite all his resolutions, receive 
that little nestling as his guardian angel, bestowing upon her, 
at the same time, so much love, that naught remained. Alas,* 
poor Ealph ! he has unwittingly thrown himself into a laby- 
rinth of difficulty, through which even that innocent guardian- 
ship may not be' able to guide him ! 

“ Beg your pardon, ma’am,” said he, as Marguerite started 
back, on seeing the child in his arms. “ I did n’t mean to hurt 
her. There, sh— ! sh— ! ” and he raised the little forehead 
to his lips. 

“ How came you here ? ” she asked, in no very pleasant 
tones, as she held out her hands for the child. But the 
spiritiwl telegraph had been faithfully at work the last 
moment, and Myrtie clung to her new protector, who pressed 
her more closely to his heart. 

“ I m only Ealph, the gardener,” said he, apologetically ; 
“I thought you would be lonesome like, and so, by leave of 
my master, I come over to see if I can do anything for you.” 

The lady’s countenance changed ; for, besides being glad 
of almost any interruption of her monotonous life, she had 
a woman’s curiosity to learn all the gossip of the place, and 
she thought this a fine opportunity. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


198 


** So, you are the new gardener, are you ? Well, you may 
come in while I wash the blood from Myrtle’s face ; she can’t 
be hurt very much, I think.” 

Marguerite spoke pleasantly, and Ralph began tc look upon 
her as some 'nice body. 

“I allers did take to children,” said he, as they went 
into the house ; “ but that ’s the purtiest darlin ’ I ever 
see.” 

“ Yes, she ’s a dear little thing ; but, Myrtle, what makes 
you run to that man so? Won’t you sit in Margery’s 
lap ? ” 

“ No, no ! ” cried she, as she nestled again into those great 
arms, and still deeper into the heart beneath, “-sissy love a 
sit here.” 

“ ’T would be a plaguy shame for them heretics to git hold 
o’ this birdie, would n’t it, now ? ” said Ralph, smoothing the 
little flaxen ringlets with his huge paw. 

Marguerite looked at him in blank astonishment. “ What 
do you mean ? ” asked she, quickly. 

“ O, nothin’ special,” said he, with much confusion, as his 
oath popped into his mind. 

“But joudid mean something; what was it ?” persisted 
Marguerite. 

“ ’T wan’t nothin’ at all,” — and Ralph’s agitation visibly 
increased, — “ only, you know, they’re allers trying to get 
away our best ’uns.” 

Mareruerite saw that he knew more than he chose to tell ; 
but the nature and extent of his information she was deter- 
mined to find out, half hoping that, by some means, he had 
learned their story. 

17 


194 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ What is a heretic, Margery ? ” asked little Charlie, who 
who had been an interested though unnoticed listener. 

“ A heretic, child ! Why, they are dreadful wicked folks, 
that will roast little children and eat them, if they can catch 
them.” 

“ Where do they live, Margery ? ” said he, drawing 
closer to her, and looking in the direction of the woods. 

“ O, they live all about here ; and, if we did n’t take 
good care of you, they would soon get you and Myrtie.” 

“ Can’t God drive them off? ” he asked, innocently. 

“ What a strange boy this is ! ” exclaimed Marguerite, 
taking him into her lap. “ The good father can keep them 
away from you, if you do just as he tells you.” 

“ That ’s it, boy,” chimed in Ralph ; “ you must please his 
ruv’rence, if you want him to save you.” 

Charlie gazed, in childish wonder, from the honest, rough 
visage of one, into the pale, anxious face of the other ; and, 
unable to cope with such intellects, ran off to his play, calling 
Myrtie to join him. 

“ Them ’s picters, I tell ye ! ” cried Ralph, following their 
little forms with his longing eyes. “Ye don’t see such every 
day.” 

“ That ’s true,” replied Marguerite ; “ but how came you to 
know anything about them ? ” 

“ 0, ’t an’t none o’ my business,” said Ralph, scratching 
his head, with a perplexed air ; “ but his ruv’rence told me to 
look in upon ye sometimes, while he ’s gone.” 

“ Gone ! where has he gone now ? ” 

“ Can’t tell ye, ma’am, ’cause I never meddle with other 
folks’ bisiness.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


195 


“ He goes away often, don’t he ? ” 

“ Yes ’m.” 

“ Does he go far, do you think ? ” 

“ Don’t know ’m.” 

“ You don’t seem to be very communicative,” said his inter- 
rogator, smiling, as she went to the closet and took out some 
glasses and nice sandwiches. “ Won’t you have a lunch? ” 

“ Thank ye, ma’am.” And Ralph’s eyes glistened as she 
poured out the tempting draught, which he swallowed without 
a moment’s hesitation. Another and another followed, his 
heart growing warmer with each glass, until Marguerite saw 
the advantage she had gained, and said, as she filled it again, 
for the fourth time, 

“ Now, Ralph, we might be very good friends, if you were 
not so shy, and afraid to tell me anything.” 

“ Shy, am I ? That ’s where you ’re mistaken, I tell ye. 
Ralph Riley an’t ’fraid o’ nobody ! ” 

“ Why did n’t you tell me, then, what I asked you just 
now ? ” 

“ ’Cause I did n’t feel like it.” 

“ 0, now you ’re a nice fellow, you mean to tell me, don’t 
you ? ” 

“ Yes, I ’ll tell ye anything, only what his ruv’rence told 
me not to.” 

“ What was that, Ralph ? ” 

About them young — 0, 1 forgot — ’tan’t nothin’.” 

“There, Ralph, I told you, just now, you was afraid to 
tell.” 

“ I an’t ’fraid, neither ; but I swared, on my knees, I 
would n t.” 


196 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ I am glad you keep your promise so well ; but, as I know 
all about it, now, it will do no harm for us to talk it over, you 
know,” said the crafty J esuit. 

“ Do you really, though ? ” asked Ealph, brightening up at 
the pleasant idea of such a confidant. 

“ Ask Father Bernaldi if I don’t,” replied she. 

“Well, then, maybe you can tell me who ’tis he wanted 
me to watch here.” Ealph spoke in a low tone ; but Mar- 
guerite started as though smitten by an unseen hand. Eecov- 
ering herself instantly, she replied, carelessly, 

“ It ’s Ellen, I suppose. But what did he want you to 
watch her, for ? ” 

“ 0, ’cause he said she ’s gettin’ some strange notions into 
her head, and so he wants me to tell him all she says and 
does.” 

“ She is rather strange ! But, Ealph, you won’t tell him 
anything only what I tell you to, will you ? ” 

“ No, I won’t, that ’s a fact,” replied the half-drunken gar- 
dener. 

“ What did he say about the children, Ealph ? ” 

“ 0, he told me all ’bout ’em ; — how their mother died, and 
how the darned old heretics tried to steal ’em, and how he ’d 
put ’em in here, so they could n’t find ’em. You know all ’bout 
it, I s’pose.” 

“ Yes, that I do ! ” she exclaimed, while her lip curled with 
contempt for him who had thus set a spy upon her actions ,* 
for rightly she conjectured that she was the one to be 
watched. 

“ You and I can talk these things over together some other 
time, Ealph, now we understand each other ; but I must see 


197 




ANNA CLAYTON. 

I 

to the children, now. Perhaps you can come over this after- 
noon, when I am not so busy.” 

“ Yes ’m, I will,” said Ralph, as he left the cottage, with 
a somewhat unsteady step. 

“ So it has come to this, at last ! ” murmured Marguerite, 
sinking into a chair, and covering her face with both hands. 
“ He whom I trusted in my youth only to be betrayed, and 
whose every word has since been my law, degrades me even 
to his servant ! Suspects strange notions, does he? Well he 
may, while he is my counsellor and guide! What a blind fool 
I have been, all my days ! One lesson, though, I will not 
forget. The cunning and guile he has taught me shall now 
be practised on himself, and he shall yet learn what it is to 
be outwitted by a woman ! ” 

17 * 


CHAPTEE XX. 


“ Thou hast prevaricated with thy friend. 

By underhand contrivances undone me.’* 

Rowe. 

Notwithstanding the business which called Bernaldi away 
was important, exceedingly so, and at any other time would 
have engrossed all his thoughts and energies, he left the 
chateau reluctantly, and in no very enviable mood. So many 
years had Marguerite been in his service, never hesitating or 
wavering in her obedience to his unquestioned authority, he 
had looked upon her as a life-bound slave. ThaP sh6 should 
dare indulge for a moment in such feelings as she confessed 
to him, was no less a matter of surprise than vexation. But, 
situated as she was towards him, with so many dark secrets 
in her keeping, it would not be safe to place her beyond his 
influence. To one cold, dark spot would he cofflign "^her, did 
not his craven heart fear detection. 

“ A truce to these thoughts ! ” .exclaimed he, at length, as 
he proceeded rapidly on his journey ; “ her insolence shall be 
punished if I don’t find her in good subjection when I return j 
but now I have more important business to attend to.” And 
he drew from his pocket a neatly-folded letter, on which was 
inscribed, in a fair and delicate hand, his own name. The 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


199 




self-satisfied air with which he unfolded and re-read the little 
missive, and the smile of triumph which gradually broke over 
his face as he pondered its contents, showed that here, at 
least, success was his. Well might he smile exultingly, — 
for Emilie De V ere was no slight conquest, and she it was 
who had written the note he held in his hand, signifying her 
readiness to enter a conventual life, if her father could be 
persuaded to consent to it. To this condition the priest gave 
not the slightest heed ; for well he knew that, her mind once 
made up to this course, it mattered little whether the haughty 
Lord De Vere consented or not. Her large fortune was now 
at her own disposal ; and, though at her father’s death it 
would be considerably increased, he was disposed to adopt the 
old adage, “ A bird in the hand,” etc., and secure the treas- 
ure while yet within his grasp. Her implied determination 
to abide by her father’s decision caused only a contemptuous 
shrug of the shoulders, as Bernaldi thought how utterly weak 
were all such influences when brought within the pale of the 
confessional. 

What rival med the confessor fear? Does he not hold 
unlimited power over the body and soul of his deluded sub- 
jects ? So, at least, reasoned Lady Emilie’s confessor, as he 
drew near Ravenswood, whose extensive parks and highly- 
cultivated grounds would so soon become the property of the 
church he served. His own share of the spoils did not, of 
course, enter into the thoughts of the godly man ! ! 

“ I would see your master. Lord De Vere,” said Bernaldi 
to the servant who answered his summons. I 

“ Lord De Vere is in the library. Will youi’ reverence 
wait upon him there ? ” replied the latter. 


200 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ If lie SO desires and Bernaldi followed the man, who 
ushered him, without ceremony, into his lordship’s presence. 

That nobleman turned, frowningly, to his servant, to rebuke 
the sudden intrusion ; but, seeing who the visitor was, he 
adyanced, with extended hand, and cordially welcomed the 
holy father. 

“ You have really surprised me in dishabille,” said he, 
glancing at his dressing-gown and slippers ; “ but John does 
not often play me such a trick, or I should be better prepared 
for him.” 

“ It is I who should apologize,” replied Bernaldi, “ for so 
unceremoniously intruding myself; but I Supposed your servant 
was obeying your directions in inviting me hither, and so 
followed him without hesitation.” 

“We will dispense with further compliments on this sub- 
ject,” said his lordship, smiling and motioning Bernaldi to a 
seat, while he resumed the one from which he had risen. 
“ Your presence is always welcome, but particularly so just 
at this time. My daughter Emilie has strangely altered since 
Sir Charles’ death, and obstinately persists in her determina- 
tion to immure herself in a convent.” 

“ So she writes me,” said Bernaldi, showing him the letter, 
“ and I thought it advisable to confer with you on the subject 
before I see her.” 

“Very thoughtful, indeed, in you, most excellent father; 
I was not aware, though, that she had written to you concern- 
ing it. You have great influence over her, and I trust will 
be able to dissuade her from a course which will bring wretch- 
edness to my heart and home.” 

“ Certainly, my dear sir; your lordship may depend upon 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


201 


my doing all within my power for your interest. But what 
does Lady Emilie say to all your arguments and entrea- 
ties?” 

“ She has assured me that she will never take such a step 
without my approval, though her happiness depends upon it. 
Sometimes I think the separation would not be so painful to 
me as to see her so melancholy and sad. Her heart seems 
buried in Sir Charles’ grave. What would you advise me to 
do or say ? ” 

“ Keally, my lord, I have not reflected sufficiently to advise 
you. Doubtless, the fervent piety and strict religious devo- 
tion of the sisterhood would have great effect in tranquillizing 
Lady Emilie’s mind, and, perhaps, might lead her into right 
'Views of the duty she owes her only parent.” 

“ 0, if I could only hope for such a result ! ” exclaimed the 
unhappy father ; “ but, supposing it were so, when once she 
has cast her lot with them, she cannot go back.” 

“ Let her, then, enter the novitiate,” cunningly suggested 
the priest ; “ there, for one year, she will have unrestricted 
liberty to go and come at pleasure ; and, surely, in that time 
she must relent.” 

Had not his lordship been overcome with mental anguish, 
he must have noticed the searching look which accompanied 
these words. Bernaldi was a little fearful that he had ven- 
tured too far in this his first interview ; but Lord De Vere 
thought only of the grief of parting with his only child, even 
for one year. 

“ Go now to her,” cried he, at length, rapidly pacing up 
and down the room ; “ save her from this fate, and you shall 


202 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


have my eternal gratitude ; ay, and more than that, too,** 
touching, significantly, his purse. 

Bernaldi assumed a look of mingled grief and indignation. 
“ Have I, then, fallen so low in your lordship’s estimation,” 
said he, “ that you hope to hribe me to accomplish that which 
the holy mother knows I would die now to do ! ” 

“ Forgive me, most worthy father ! I never for a moment 
doubted the^ purity of your intentions, or meant to insinuate 
aught against your perfect uprightness ; but my whole fortune 
would be worthless to me, separated from that dear child \ 
indeed, I could scarce hope to survive it and the proud, 
haughty man hid his face in his hands, and wept like a child. 

“ Do not, my dear sir,” whispered the priest, “ allow yourself 
to give way to such grief. Possibly this dreaded evil may be 
averted, and Lady Emilie restored to herself again. I will 
seek her, and use all my influence in your behalf,’’ — and he 
left the still weeping father, and noiselessly glided to Lady 
Emilie’s boudoir. For a moment he stood gazing at the scene 
before him, his heart bounding with ecstacy that the beautiful 
being who knelt there, absorbed in such heavenly meditations, 
would soon be within his power. The robes of mourning, 
which she still wore in remembrance of the dead, gave to her 
colorless face an almost ethereal beauty, while the deep devo- 
tion that was now burning within her beamed forth from her 
dark eyes with holy light. Bernaldi must have been more 
than mortal to look upon her thus unmoved, knowing that, by 
cautious management, the prize might be secured ; but he felt 
equal to the task, and approached her with the easy assurance 
of one who is confident of success. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


203 


“ Benedicite ! ” he solemnly pronounced, laying his hand 
on her head, as she arose. 

“ Thanks, good father,” she humbly replied. 

“ What have been thy thoughts, my daughter, while kneel- 
ing here before the cross ? Does earth still bind thee to its 
sordid pleasures, or hast thou already a foretaste of the joys 
which belong only to those who crucify the flesh, that so. their 
hearts may be purified ? ” 

“I am in a state of doubt and perplexity, most holy 
father,” Lady Emilie replied. “ To the world and its vani- 
ties I am indeed dead ; but, for my father’s sake, must I not 
still mingle in its pleasures? It is to decide this question 
that I wished so earnestly to see you, my spiritual guide.” 

“ What says the holy word, my daughter ? ‘ He that loveth 
father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me.’ The 
ever-blessed and holy mother o^ Jesus will not suffer aught to 
come between her love and thine. You cannot be truly her 
disciple till you are willing to cast every earthly lust at her 
feet, and do whatsoever she commands you.” 

“ Though torture and death were in ^my path,” cried the 
infatuated girl, “ I could fearlessly meet them all, to be thought 
worthy a humble place among the sisterhood of saints ; but 
my father ! 0, my father ! who could fulfil my duties to him ? ” 

“ You have no duties, my daughter, aside from those you 
owe the church ; and this remnant of earthly affection is the 
very sin you must crucify.” 

“ And so I will,” murmured she, falling on her knees be- 
fore the crucifix. “ Blessed Mother, hear me, as I surrender 
this last tie at thy command, henceforth to be thine only ! ” 

“ Amen ! ” solemnly added the priest ; “ now, indeed, thy 


204 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


home should be among the holy ones, whose life on earth is 
but a type of eternal rest and joy ! ” 

“My heart is ready, holy father, if you but point the 
way.” 

“ I would spare your noble father’s feelings,” answered the 
J esuit, “ as far as we can, consistently. I have already pro- 
posed to him that you spend one year as a novice before you 
take the veil which separates you from the world. And thus 
he may be won, by witnessing your calm and happy life, to 
yield you up with gladness to your glorious destiny.” 

“ How kind and thoughtful in you ! But he — what did he 
say ? will he consent ? ” she asked, eagerly. 

“ He will, without doubt. And now that your mind is 
settled, and at ^;rest about your duty, I will return again to 
Lord He Yere, whom I left in the library; and this evening 
arrangements can be made your removal to the peaceful 
and quiet home you have so wisely chosen.” 

“ Then will my prayers be answered,” exclaimed the fair 
enthusiast, “ when, united by more than mortal vows, I clasp 
to my heart those holy sisters, whose pure and spotless lives it 
shall ever be my study to imitate.” 


-CHAPTER XXI. 

** For he 

That sows in craft does reap in jealousy.” 

Middlbtdn. 

Ten years, in rapid and noiseless flight, have passed away, 
and, save in our little captives, no outward change is visible 
in and about the chateau. True, a few more wrinkles have 
been added to Bernaldi’s face, and silvery hairs are here and 
there sprinkled in his dark locks ; true, the bishop’s form is 
more bent, and age comes creeping on with faltering step and 
hidden mien, but so gradually does it make its dark inroads, 
that all seems unchanged. Ralph is still the honest, stupid 
gardener, watching with jealous care the unfolding bud whose 
germ was engrafted in his heart as he caught the wee tod- 
dling thing in his arms at the cottage door, and whose daily- 
increasing beauty and loveliness have been his constant and 
almost only delight. There he stands now, with his chin 
resting upon his spade, seemingly in deep and anxious thought ; 
for now and then a big tear drops from under those shaggy 
brows, and a sigh deep and long bursts from his true heart. 
Softly the door of the arbor uncloses, and a perfect little 
vision of loveliness peeps out, and, tripping lightly along, 
18 


206 


ANNA CLAYTON 


clasps his great hand, with a joyous, childish laugh that she 
has for once surprised him. 

“ 0, you rogue ! ” he exclaimed ; “ I bleye you ’re a farey, 
and jumped out o’ that bush to scare me.” 

“ What is a fairy, Ralph ? ” said she, after a hearty laugh 
at his exclamation. 

“ 0, they ’re real little beauties, I tell ye, that live in 
flowers and bushes; and sometimes they bring us good things.” 

“ 0, I wish I could see one ! ” cried Myrtie. “ What do 
they look like ? ” 

“ Like you, only they an’t half so putty.” 

“ Like me, Ralph ! Why, I could not live in a flower ! ’’ and 
she looked a little puzzled, and a very little angry, at this 
seeming slight to her important growth. 

“Wal, I most wish you could, ’cause then I’d hide ye 
where nobody could n’t find ye ; ” and then he muttered, in an 
under tone, “ I say it ’s a shame to shut her up in that ’tamal 
old convent ! ” 

“ Did you say they give us good things, Ralph ? ” 

“ Yes, duckey, sometimes.” 

“ What, everything we ask them to ? ” 

“Wal, I should think they’d give you putty much any- 
thing you wanted,” answered the partial gardener. 

“ 0, 1 wish I could see one ! ” cried Myrtie again ; “ I 
know what I’d ask ’em to give me.” 

“Wal, what ’s that, duckey ? ” 

She put her mouth close to Ralph’s ear, and whispered 
something that made him start. 

“ Why, what put that into your head ? ” he asked, looking 
at her with surprise. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


207 


“ 0, Charlie has told me all about it,” said she, and her 
little face grew very sad ; “ but we mean to run away, when 
we are bigger, and find her.” 

“Hush don’t speak so loud,” said Kalph. “ If his ruv’rence 
should hear you talk so, he ’d put you where I should n’t see 
you agin, I tell ye.” 

“ Yes, but he don’t know it, and Margery don’t know it, 
and nobody don’t know it but you. Charlie said I might tell 
you, ’cause you would n’t tell nobody, would you ? ” 

“I’d sooner cut my head off! ” exclaimed Kalph, warmly. 
“No, duckey, you need n’t be afraid to tell Kalph Kiley any- 
thing ; I ’d go to purgatory this minit for ye.” 

Myrtie had had sufficient evidence of that before, and 
she knew intuitively that her confidence in him was not mis- 
placed. She threw her fair arms lovingly around his great 
neck, and her sunny ringlets contrasted strangely with his 
tangled locks ; but what cared she, while his was the only 
heart, save her brother’s, upon which she could lean in perfect 
trust? “ 0, Kalph,” said she, “you ’re a dear, good Kalph ! ” 
And then she whispered, “ When we go, Charlie and I, you 
shall go too, — won’t you ? ” 

“ Yes, duckey,” said he, more to quiet her than anything 
else. 

Kaiph’s unfailing devotion to the sweet little girl had won 
for him Marguerite’s special favor, and she had confided to 
him, what she dared not to any other, the story of the 
orphans, and her own wicked part in their abduction. Her 
failing health, admonishing her of the uncertainty of life, had 
brought, with thoughts of death, bitter reflections on her past 
conduct. The fountains of her heart had been opened by the 


208 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


pure, innocent affection of the children she had so cruelly de- 
prived of a mother’s love, and, now that she must inevitably 
leave them, she shuddered at their fate, and longed to restore 
them even to that hated heretic mother. For herself, she 
knew no other religion than the priest had taught her; but for 
the little ones, who could scarcely be more dear were they her 
own, she desired something 'pwrer and better. What that 
something should be, she could not tell ; but there lay hidden 
in her heart a secret remembrance of the pious words and 
lovely example of the gentle pastor’s wife, whom she had 
often seen and heard while at Squire Clayton’s, and she felt 
persuaded that Charlie and Myrtie would be safer under such 
influences than in the convent and monastery to which Ber- 
naldi was soon to consign them. She had never dared give 
utterance to such thoughts, even at the confessional, though 
for such an omission she feared her soul might be lost ; but 
she distrusted Bernaldi, and to no other would he allow her 
to confess. The secret, therefore, remained with her, and her 
heart was filled with burning thoughts and resolves. To 
Balph, the only one about her in whom she had any confi- 
dence, she had told all she dared ; but to the children them- 
selves she had never mentioned the subject, though often im- 
portuned by Charlie, who retained a vivid recollection of his 
mother’s agony when he was taken from her. The little fel- 
low had received such threats from Bernaldi, that now it was 
only in whispered conferences with Myrtie that he dared men- 
tion his mother at all. She — little, confiding creature ! kept 

nothing from Ralph, and so he was made the depository of 
all her sage thoughts on the subject. The faithful gardener 
would sooner die than betray her trust, and his honest heart, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


209 


it must be confessed, wavered somewhat in its allegiance to 
his “ ruv rence,” as he listened with indignation to the story 
of their wrongs. 

Bernaldi’s quick instinct detected something wrong in the 
atmosphere about him ; but fear made his servants, for once, 
as wary as himself, and he still remained ignorant of the 
change which was gradually taking place in the hearts of his 
dependents. He, however, thought it advisable to place 
Charlie at once<%ithin the walls of the cloister adjoining the 
chateau, where his own influence would be felt more strongly, 
and he could more easily control the boy’s thoughts and feel- 
ings. 

On the very afternoon when Myrtie clung so lovingly to her 
rough protector and confidant, Bernaldi passed then^on his 
way to the cottage, to make known his determination to Mar- 
guerite. He found her reclining languidly in her easy-chair, 
her wan features growing a shade paler with each successive 
visit, which, of late, had been infrequent, and deep dejection 
visible in every lineament of her usually calm and stoical 
face. On a stool near her Charlie sat reading aloud to be- 
guile her weariness, and now and then stopping to express his 
earnest sympathy in her evident sufiering. ’T was strange to 
see the thoughtfulness with which this boy of fourteen watched 
her varying emotions, changing, with each mood, his reading or 
remarks ; strange, too, was it to see the heartless, intriguing, 
guilt-stained Jesuit transformed into the sad, sorrowful, 
repentant woman ! But such a scene had no power to soften 
the obdurate heart of the priest, who now stood before them, 
secretly rejoicing in the misery he was about to inflict upon 
them. He was jealous of Marguerite’s affection for these 
18 * 


210 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


children ; not that he cared alight for her whom he had long 
since cast off as a worn-out slave, but that his own power 
over her should be supplanted by a mere boy, he could not 
endure. Nor did the evident shrinking with which they 
received his salutation escape the keen observation of this 
J esuit. He had before noticed this, and now he would have 
his revenge, by separating them forever. 

“ I am glad to find you looking so comfortable and happy,” 
said he, smilingly, seating himself to his tdik. “You are 
certainly improving, Marguerite ; we shall have you out again 
before long, I trust.” 

“ I cannot say that I either expect or wish for such a result 
to my illness,” she replied, sadly. 

“I ajjj sorry to hear you say so,” said Bernaldi. “I did 
hope to find you in better spirits than when I saw you last, 
for I wish to talk with you about Charlie, here ; he is quite 
outgrowing your care, I think.” 

The poor invalid drooped her head and sighed, for she un- 
derstood too well his meaning; while Charlie looked up, 
wonderingly. Without appearing to notice either, the Jesuit 
continued, 

“ You have proved yourself a faithful teacher. Marguerite, 
and Charlie an apt scholar, in attaining a proficiency far 
beyond his years; but now his mind needs a wider scope, 
and Father Francis will henceforth have the guidance of his 
untamed spirit.” 

“ When do you wish him to go ? ” asked she, faintly. 

“ He may as well go at once ; it will relieve you from a 
part of your burden.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


211 


A portion of her old spirit returned, as she replied, with a 
flashing eye, 

“ Burden, indeed ! You would take from me my only com- 
fort, and leave me to solitude and death ! Speak plainly ; it 
needs no smooth words to conceal your meaning.” 

“Very well,” coolly answered he, “if you wish for plain 
words, you shall have them. That boy remains no longer 
with you, but goes with me nm to his future abode. So 
make yourself ready, sir, immediately.” 

“ 0, good father ! ” pleaded the boy, with quivering lip, 
“ please don’t take me from Margery now ! Who can read to 
her, pray for her, and attend to all her little wants, when I 
am gone ? She has been good and kind to me ; let me stay 
with her till she gets well, and then I am ready to go wherever 
you wish. Grant me just this one favor, I beg ! ” Charlie 
had fallen on his knees, in his earnestness, and Marguerite 
‘ sank beside him, bathed in tears. 

“ Silence ! ” thundered Bernaldi ; “ no more of this non- 
sense ! You have been with her too long already ; now gather 
what things you have, and come with me. It is time you had 
a master.” 

“ Stay, Marguerite,” added he, as she rose to follow Char- 
lie out of the room ; “I have a few words for your ear. 
I have not been blind or deaf lately, and, though you seek to 
deceive me, remember, your infamy shall be visited on your 
own head. It is for this I remove the boy from you ; and 
the girl will soon follow; for, mark you — your doom is 
sealed I 

“ I scorn alike your threats and your own polluted self ! ’ 


212 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


exclaimed she, shaking her finger towards him. “ Beware 
how you incense me ! ” 

“ Ha ! ha ! What can you do ? ” muttered Bernaldi, as 
Charlie returned. 

No word was spoken, but in one long, agonizing embrace 
Marguerite parted with the boy, whose pure and innocent 
childhood had awakened the first throb of contrition in her 
heart, and made life sweet to her. 

“ It is right — it is just ! ” cried she, as her aching eyes 
gazed longingly at the last glimpse of his loved form. “ The 
bitterness of this moment but speaks to me of the anguish and 
woe of that mother’s heart whom we desolated. 0, that I 
could restore them again to her bosom ! Then would I die in 
peace. But how shall I endure this lonely existence ? — the 
little voices all hushed and silent — (for Myrtie will soon go ; 
he said it) — and these echoing walls only breathing into my 
ear remorse — remorse — remorse ! I will have revenge ! 
Revenge ! — Ah, yes ; he shall yet feel it, and by my hand too, 
feeble and powerless as he deems me. I know a way to reach 
his heart, and it shall be done. Holy Virgin, aid me in one 
last effort expiate my crimes on the altar of jtistice and 
truth ! ” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


** I grant him bloody, 

Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful. 

Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin 

That has a name.’* Shakspeabe. 

Where are you going, Charlie ? ” cried Myrtie, gazing 
at the little bundle in her brother’s hand, as he emerged from 
the cottage path with Bernaldi. 

“ I don’t know ! ■” said he, and, throwing his arms about her 
neck, he burst into a passionate flood of weeping. 

“ Come, no more scenes ! ” said the priest, drawing him 
from her. “ You make a perfect baby of yourself. You ’re 
going where you will soon learn to be a man, I hope.” 

“ Will you please to tell me, good father,” asked Myrtie, 
in her most winning tones, “ what Charlie is crying so for, 
and what you are going to do with him ? ” 

The priest looked a little disconcerted at the fair questioner, 
but, seeing Ralph, he turned away to give him some direc- 
tions, without answering her. The words which Charlie then 
whispered in her ear caused her childish heart to swell with 
grief and indignation, and together they mingled their sobs 
and tears, for this, their first separation. Charlie was the 
first to speak. 


2J4 ^ ANNA CLAYTON. 

“ Myrtie ! ” whispered he, “ we shall never play or study 
together again, and perhaps I shall not see your dear face for 
a long time ; but promise me that you will remember all I 
have said to you about ^r, — our own mother, — and never 
forget that some day we shall go and find her. But, for your 
life, you must not tell any one, except Ralph.” 

“ I shan’t forget anything that you have told me,” said 
she, looking into his face, with tearful eyes \ “ but what can 
I do without you, Charlie ? 0>, I shall die, I know I shall ! ” 
and again the tears burst forth afresh. 

“ No, darling, you are a little girl yet, and I am not much 
older, but we must not cry nor be childish ; we must try to 
grow old as fast as we can, so that we can learn some way to 
find out our dear mother.” 

“What’s all this whimpering about?” said the priest, 
suddenly interrupting them ; “ I told you, just now, I ’d have 
no more scenes ! So, bid your brother good-by, Myrtie, and go 
with Ralph. — Remember my instructions ! ” added he, look- 
ing at the latter, “ and do everything as I bid you ! ” 

“Yes, sir, yur ruv’rence ! ” answered that worthy person- 
age, with an emphatic nod of the head, and leading the little 
girl towards the cottage. 

“Now, sir,” said Bernaldi, addressing Charlie, as they 
proceeded to the monastery, “ you must lay aside all your 
foolish whims, for henceforth I am to be your sole master, and 
I shall expect perfect obedience from you. There,” pointing 
to the dark, grim-looking building before them, “ is your home 
and you must never wish to leave it, for such a thing will not 
be allowed. You are now to commence life in earnest, and I 
trust we shall have no difficulty with you.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


215 


Charlie looked at the gray walls above him, at the 
cheerless, barren spot, with its high enclosure, that was here- 
after to limit his enjoyment of nature, and his heart grew old 
within him. He dared not trust his lips to utter a reply to 
his master, but walked silently within its gloomy portals, tho 
light of hope fast dying out in his young heart. 

After a few moments’ whispered conference with the only 
occupant of the room into which they were ushered, Bernaldi 
came forward with his companion, and introduced his protegd 
to Father Francis, who, as he told Charlie, would have the 
special charge of him in his (Bernaldi’s) absence. 

Father Francis, though many years younger than Ber- 
naldi, had a repulsive, sinister expression about his face, that 
caused Charlie to shrink with aversion from his proffered 
hand, as he accosted him.^ 

“ Eeally, my lad,” said he, noticing the movement, and 
divining at once its cause, you have some spirit, I see. 
Well, never mind, we shall understand each other better, by 
and by.” Then, turning to Bernaldi, who stood by, with dark- 
ened brow, he added, “ I suppose you have given the boy 
some instructions as to his conduct here.” 

“ No, I have not,” answered the priest ; “ I thought it best 
to leave him to your excellent guidance. You see,” said he, 
in a tone not intended to reach Charlie’s ears, “ what you 
have to deal with, and need not hesitate to use any means 
to curb him.” 

I see — I understand,” replied the prior, turning again to 
Charlie. 

He, poor boy, had been silently contemplating his 
strange and unhappy position during the short conversa- 


210 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


tion, and, looking up ingenuously into the face of his new 
friend, he exclaimed, “ Indeed, sir, I did not mean to offend 
you I ” 

“ Very likely,” was the ungracious answer ; “ but we 
suffer no apologies to be made here, so you will please 
remember that your like or dislike is of no consequence to me.” 

Charlie, thus rudely repulsed, ventured not another word ; 
but his heart turned longingly to the little cottage, with Myrtic 
and Marguerite to love him ; and still more yearningly to one 
who even then seemed dearer to him than aught else, save 
Myrtie. Courage, noble, brave boy ! the strength and hope 
which springs up within thee, at thoughts of that sacred 
name, come from above, where, at this moment, her softly- 
breathed prayers are ascending for thee, her first-born, and 
gently falling like dew upon thy sinking heart ! 

Charlie instinctively grasped Bernaldi’s hand, as the latter 
rose to go and leave him in this cheerless place ; for even his 
cold face seemed pleasant to the boy, now so friendless. But, 
secure of his victim, the heartless priest had no longer occa- 
sion for reserve or concealment, and, angrily pushing him 
away, he exclaimed : 

“ No more o’ your puling around me, you young brat ! 
I ’ve had enough of you, I hope. As I hated your vile heretic 
mother, so do I hate you ; and now you ’ve got to smart fo^ 
all the bother you’ve been to me! Yes, and that little 
pale-faced wretch of a sister of yours has got to take it 
too, I reckon ! We ’ll see who ’s master round here now ! ” 

So saying, he left the room, followed by Father Francis. 
Then did that young, o’erburdened heart yield to its fate, and 
Charlie fell senseless to the floor. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


217 


How sweet and happy were the dreams that came o^er him 
then ! — a fond, loving face, beautiful as an angel’s, hovering 
in earnest tenderness over his couch, while words of love, 
whose tones were sweeter than music, fell upon his ear, calling 
him back to childhood again. Stretching forth his hands, he 
murmured, “ Mamma, dear mamma ! I ’m so tired ! ” 

“ What does the boy mean ? ” said a voice near him, while 
more vigorously they applied restoratives to bring back his 
young life to its woe. 

“ He ’s coming to, I reckon,” replied another. 

“ Better let him die, while he ’s about it,” said a third ; 
‘he ’ll never have an easier time.” 

“ That won’t do,” said the first speaker ; “ he ’s wanted for 
I something special^ I should think, from the charge Father 
Francis gave me.” 

“ Likely he ’s got money, then,” added the other. 

“ Of course ; or else he would n’t be of any account here,’' 
was the reply, in a bitter tone. 

“ Take care ! The walls have ears, remember ! ” 

But the caution came too late. The walls echoed faith- 
fully, and the poor brother had to atone most severely for his 
indiscretion. 

Meanwhile, the object of their immediate solicitude was 
slowly reviving under their efficacious treatment ; but, as his 
bright, happy dreams vanished, and that sweet voice gave 
place to the discordant sounds about him, he feared to unclose 
his eyes, lest he should find himself surrounded by evil spirits. 
G-radually, however, the scenes of the last few hours came td 
his remembrance, and he shuddered as he thought of Ber- 
naldi’s parting words, 

19 


218 


ANNA CLA YTON. 


Come, rouse up, lUy boy ! ” spoke one, not unkindly, as he 
noticed the movement; and Charlie ventured to raise one 
inquiring glance to his face. What he saw there seemed to 
inspire confidence, for he held out his hand, and said, plain- 
tively, “ Will you be my friend, now I have n’t any one else? ” 
Father Ambrose smoothed his hair gently, and looked pity- 
ingly into the dark, earnest eyes raised to his own, as he 
answered, “Why do you say that, child? You are too young 
to be friendless.” 

“ But the good father has taken me away from Margery and 
Myrtie, the only ones I had, and brought me here to live, where 
he says I must always stay, and not see them any more.” 

“ Who do you mean by the ‘ good father ’ ? ” 

“ Why, Father Bernaldi, that came here with me.” 

“ And who is Margery and Myrtie ? ” 

“ Myrtie is my darling little sister, and Margery takes care 
of us and teaches us ; — that is, she did ; but Father Bernaldi 
says Myrtie is going somewhere else to live, too.” 

“ Humph ! here ’s some more of his tricks, I reckon,” said 
the monk, aside^ 

“ What did you say, sir ? ” asked Charlie. 

“ Nothing ; what is your name, my boy ? ” 

“Charlie.” 

“ Charlie what ? ’ 

“ I don’t know, sir.” 

“ Don’t know ! What do you mean by that, Charlie ? ” 

“ I know I had another name, once ; but it is so long ago 
that [ have forgotten it, and no one about here knows."* 

“ That is very strange ! ” exclaimed Ambrose, his interest 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


219 


in the boy growing deeper every moment. » Where did you 
come from ? ” 

A momentary flush crossed Charlie’s face as he replied, “ I 
don’t know, exactly; and, if I did, I must not tell you.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

Because — because ” — Charlie hesitated — “ I should n’t 
dare to.” 

The monk knew very well why he dared not tell, and for- 
bore to press him further ; though he resolved to befriend the 
boy when he should learn his history. 

None who had ever known Charles Duncan could fail to 
recognize Charlie’s resemblance to his father; but in him the 
mother’s sweetness of disposition was united to the father’s 
vivacity, and Charlie, now in his fifteenth year, was a beau- 
tiful, affectionate, high-spirited boy. He felt keenly Bernaldi’s 
injustice and cruelty in separating him from Myrtie, the only 
one he had to love ; and while he dared not oppose him, 
whom he had been taught to obey, the half-formed thoughts 
and resolves fioating in his mind for the last few years began 
to shape themselves into one great purpose. He carefully 
studied those about him, scanned each face with trembling 
solicitude ; but, save Father Ambrose, found in them only the 
index to cold, unfeeling hearts. Vainly did he endeavor to 
draw forth one kind look or smile ; souls and bodies seemed 
alike congealed in that frigid atmosphere, and his own long- 
ing heart returned to him void, finding no sympathy, or 
humanity even, there. Father Ambrose alone, of all that 
monkish clan, looked with kindly feelings upon the friendless 
boy, and watched with increasing interest the noble spirit 
which bore him manfully through trials that would have 


220 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


caused many an older cheek to pale, and harder hearts to 
grow faint. But days and weeks passed ere he could win 
from Charlie more of his story than he had told him in his 
first interview ; so strongly had Bernaldi impressed the boy’s 
fears with his repeated threats and warnings. 

One morning, however, after an unusually severe penalty 
had been inflicted upon Charlie, — for Father Francis de- 
lighted in heaping insults on him, — he sought the monk’s 
cell, quivering under a sense of the indignity and injustice of 
which he was the victim, and, throwing himself down, exclaimed, 
passionately, 

“ 0, Father Ambrose, I would rather die than live in such 
a place as this ! ” 

“ Poor boy ! ” replied the monk, compassionately, “ I 
don’t much wonder that you feel so ; but be careful that no 
one hears you say it beside me, lest it should make matters 
worse.” 

“ Are you, then, reaUy a good friend to me? ” asked Charlie, 
brightening up a little. 

“ Better than you are willing to let me be, I fear; else you 
would tell me more about yourself.” 

“ If I thought it would be safe,” said Charlie, looking 
earnestly into the face of the other, as though he would read 
his thoughts, “ I should be so glad to tell you all I know ; 
and then, perhaps, you could advise me, and help me too. 
But, if Father Bernaldi should And it out, he would kill me 
and Myrtie too, for he said so and Charlie lowered his 
voice, looking around fearfully. 

“ He shall never know anything you confide to me,” said 
Ambrose, encouragingly, » depend upon that ; and, if I can do 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


221 


augtt to make your life easier or happier, I shall rejoice 
in it.” 

“ Thank you, 0, thank you, a thousand times ! ” cried 
Charlie. “ I will trust you, for I know you will not betray 
me ! ” 

Tears, which had refused to start at threats, punishments, 
and even insults, flowed plentifully at these words of kind- 
ness, and Charlie wept for a few moments unrestrained. 

“ There ! ” said Father Ambrose, gently, “ that will do 
now ; you know we cannot be together long, or it will be 
noticed, and we shall be separated entirely. Have you heard 
from your sister since you came here ? ” 

“ No,” replied Charlie, “ and it is that which grieves me 
most now. I have asked Father Bernaldi, but he will tell me 
nothing about her, only that I am not to see her again.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” muttered the monk ; “ others 
can plan as well as he. Where do you say she is, or was ? ” 

“ In the little cottage at the end of the garden ; but Kalph 
could tell you where she is now. 0, if I could see Myrtie ! ” 
and Charlie’s eyes sparkled with the thought. 

“ Well, don’t get too much excited about it — we ’ll see. 
Who is Ralph ? ” 

« Why, he ’s the gardener, and a dear, good fellow too ; 
he ’ll do anything Myrtie asks him to. I should n’t wonder 
if he has tried to And me before now.” 

« No doubt,” said the monk. “ Now, if you will go and 
keep perfectly quiet, I will see what I can do to relieve your 
first trouble ; then, perhaps, you will find me to be a friend 
you can trust, and will open your heart freely to me.” 

What cared Charlie now for cold words, or colder looks, as 

19 * 


222 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


he went, with a light L^art, about his daily task. Would ho 
not soon, perhaps this very day, see the bright, sunny face that 
had ever been near his, and forget all his sorrows in her sweet, 
loving caresses ? His heart began to grow young again, and, 
for the first time in that forlorn abode, a smile lighted up his 
pad, boyish face. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


“ Farewell ! God knows when we shall meet again : 
I have a faint, cold fear thrills through my vein^ 
That almost freezes up the heat of life 


Shaesfeabe. 


“ This here ’s bad bisness, now I tell ye,” growled Ralph, 
as he entered Marguerite’s room, hastily, after Charlie’s de- 
parture. But she heeded him not, as she sat there with her 
face buried in her hands, in an attitude of despair. Ralph 
coughed and hemmed several times, impatiently, and at length 
ventured to touch her gently on the shoulder ; yet she moved 
not. 

“ Holloa, there, Ellen ! ” he screamed, opening the door, 
“ come quick, — your mistress has fainted ! ” 

“ She an’t nc mistress o’ mine, I ’d have you to know,’* 
muttered the girl, as she dashed some cold water into Mar- 
guerite’s face, and pulled her rather rudely on the sofa. 

“ Take care,” said he, “ or I ’ll report ye to his ruv’- 
rence.” 

“ Much he cares for her now ! ” replied she, sneeringly, for 
she had of late been an eaves-dropper during Bemaldi’s visits, 
and knew pretty well how matters stood. “ There, she ’s 


224 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


coming to now, so I ’ll leave her to you, ’cause I ’ve got 
plenty o’ work to do, without fussing over her ! ” and she 
slammed the door after her, with no slight noise. 

“ Wal, now, if that an’t too bad ! ” said Ralph to himself ; 
“ this poor thing ’ll die, and nobody to care for her, neither.” 

“ Is that you, Ralph ? ” sighed Marguerite, unclosing her 
eyes, and looking around the room. 

“ Yes, it ’s me, and nobody else; do you feel better now? ” 

“ I believe so ; what has happened ? 0,1 remember now,” 
and she placed her hand over her heart to still its throbbings. 

‘ As I ^i^s sayin’ jest now, it ’s mighty bad bisness, in my 
’pinion, this is,” said Ralph, shaking his head. 

“ It ’s dreadful, Ralph ; but think how their poor mother 
must have suffered when we stole them away from her ! ” 

“ O, wal,” said he, soothingly, “ she was a heretic, you 
know, and it was for their good you took ’em away.” 

“ No, Ralph, I cannot claim a good motive for that wicked 
deed, said she, earnestly, “ though the Holy Mother knows 
how sincerely and bitterly I have repented it.” 

“ Is Charlie goin’ to stay long in the ‘ St. Augustine ’ ? ” 
asked Ralph. 

“ I suppose so ; for Father Bernaldi said that henceforth 
he would be under the care of Father Francis.” 

“ Then I can see him sumtimes,” said Ralph ; “ but my 
putty birdie — where ’ll she go ? ” 

“ I don’t know ; Father Bernaldi has n’t told me yet.” 

“Seems to me I shan’t stan’ it when she’s gone;” and( 
Ralph’s voice trembled. “ Why don’t he let you keep her a 
spell longer? She ’s too young to go among them old stiff 
nuns.” 


ANNA CLAYTON 


225 


“ He ’s afraid I shall spoil her, as he says I have Charlie,” 
replied Marguerite, with a curling lip. 

“ There an’t a better boy nowheres,” exclaimed Ralph, 
energetically ; “ but they ’ll break his spirit, I ’m afeared.” 

“ That ’s what they intend to do, Ralph, and Myrtle’s too, 
I know but too well what a convent life is ; and, were it not 
that I have other hopes for her, I would sooner see her die 
than go there. Ay, ’t would be a kindness even to take her 
life.” 

Ralph started to his feet ; he had never seen Marguerite so 
excited before, and he feared she was losing her seizes. 

“ Ralph ! ” said she, solemnly, “ my life is almost ended, 
and there are none to care how soon it may be ; but, before I 
die, I have a great work to perform. This very hour, at the 
foot of that cross, I have vowed to accomplish it ; and you, 
Ralph, are the only one that can aid me. Promise me, for 
Myrtle’s sake, that you will.” 

“ I ’d a-most give up my soul for Myrtle now,” said he. 

“ I know you would, Raljijll ; and your devotion to her has 
strengthened my purpose. But I ’m too weak to talk any 
more now ; don’t, for your life, repeat anything I ’ve said to 
you. Where ’s Myrtle ? ” 

“ She ’s here,” he replied, looking out of the window ; 
“but her poor little heart is broken partin’ with Charlie; and 
when she comes to go herself I ’m thinking ’t will ’bout kill 
her.” 

He went out as he spoke ; and, sitting on the door-step, 
the very one where he had first taken the little girl to his 
arms and heart, — wept such tears as were never before 
wrung from his heart. He knew, though he dared not tell 


226 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Marguerite, in her excited state, that the next day his dar- 
ling pet, whom he had watched so tenderly, would go among 
strangers ; and what Marguerite had just said of a convent 
life sank deeply into his heart, and made him tremble still 
more for the fate of his treasure. 

“ What makes you so sad, Ralph ? ” asked Myrtie, coming 
to him, her own eyes red with weeping for the loss of her 
playmate. 

“ 0 dear, dear! I can’t stan’ this, no way!” burst from him, 
as he rushed furiously along the path to the chateau. Then 
turning, he ran back, and caught the wondering girl in his 
arms, and hugged her convulsively to his bursting heart. 

“ What is the matter, dear Ralph ? ” cried she. 

“ Matter ! darlin’, blessed birdie ! Why, your old Ralph’s 
heart ’s a breakin’, that ’s all ! ” groaned he. 

“ What for — because Charlie ’s gone ? ” 

“ No, no, not that, though I feel bad enough about it; or 
should, if ’t wan’t for sumthin’ else.” 

“ Do tell me what it is, Ralpi ; you know I shall pity 
you.” 

“ It ’s yourself, birdie, that ’s to be pitied ! What ’ll you 
do without Margery to take care of ye, and old Ralph to tend 
ye, and worship the very ground ye tread on ? ” 

“Are you going away to leave me?” she asked, plain- 
tively. 

“ No, duckey, I an’t ; but you ’ve got to go, and leave my 
old heart to break!” And Myrtie felt the strong frame be- 
neath her shake. 

“ Where am I going, Ralph ? ” 

“ I don’t knDw, yet ; but his ruv’rence said you would 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


227 


go to-morrow. There, it ’s all out, now ! ” And tears again 
rolled down his sunburnt cheek. 

* That ’s what Charlie meant when he told me to keep up 
good courage,” said Myrtie, thoughtfully ; » and he said, too, 
I must n’t be childish about it, but grow old fast, so that we 
could some day find out our dear mother ! 0, Ralph, don’t 

feel so bad ; ’cause you will go with us, and then we shall 
always live together.” 

He could not bear to sadden that young heart ; so he re- 
plied, “Wal, duckey, these old knees shall bend everyday 
and every night for ye, and it ’ll be mighty hard if suthin’ 
don’t come of it, I tell ye. But what can I do without you, 
birdie ? ” 

“ O, you will come and see me, and then we will have such 
a nice time ! and may be I can come here, too.” 

“ Poor little thing ! Margery says they won’t let me. But 
I know what I ’ll do,” said Ralph, brightening' up ; “ I ’ll see 
where you go, and maybe they ’d hire me to work where I 
can catch a sight of your sweet face sumtimes, jest enough to 
keep the heart in me.” 

“ But poor Margery, Ralph ! How could you leave her all 
alone ? ” 

“ 0 dear, dear ! ” replied he, “ I did n’t think o’ her ! Wal, 
what shall I da, any way?” And again the cloud rested 
heavily upon his spirit. 

“ Stay here with dear Margery,” answered the thoughtful 
child, “ and ask Father Bernaldi to let you come and see me, 
sometimes. It won’t be long, Ralph ; for I mean to be so very 
good, the Blessed Virgin will answer our prayers — Charlie’s 
and mine.” 


228 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Ralph walked home in a state of bewilderment. He seemed 
beset with troubles from which he could not extricate himself. 
He had promised to stay with Margery, and aid her in some- 
thing, he knew not what. And here was his birdie, the light 
of his eye, going he knew not where, with none to care for 
her as he had done. Yainly did the ragged slouched hat 
perform repeated precipitate journeys from his head to the 
ground, while with his fingers’ ends he sought to scratch up 
some new idea from his cranium. In vain did he strike more 
vigorously his spade into the earth, as though a mine of 
knowledge might be hidden beneath. The mystery could not 
be solved ; and the simple-hearted gardener was fairly lost in 
the darkness and sorrow with which he was surrounded. Sud- 
denly, however, his face brightened ; and, dropping his spado, 
he ran with all speed up the garden-walk to the chateau, and 
was soon knocking humbly at the door of the library. 

“Come in,” cried the bishop’s voice. And Ralph stood 
trembling in the presence of the most holy father, twirling 
nervously the old hat around his fingers. 

“ Why, Ralph ! ” said the bishop, looking somewhat aston- 
ished at his appearance, “ what brings you here, now ? ” 

“ If it please yur great ruv’rence,” answered the gardener, 
“ I ’m troubled in here ! ” laying his broad hand on his breast. 

“ Ah, Ralph — what ’s the matter ? Have n’t you con- 
fessed, lately ? ” 

“Most holy father, I have; but that don’t reach it. 1 
must go away from here ; and I want your blessin’' and a 
caracter,” said Ralph, growing bolder. 

“My blessing and a character!” replied the bishop. 


ANNA C LAYTON. 


229 


“ Surely, you are out of your senses, Ralph. Why do you 
wish to leave here ? ” 

“ Yur great ruv’rence will pardon what I shall say in answer 
to your question.” 

“ Certainly, Ralph — say on.” 

“Wal, then, for more’n ten years I’ve worked faithful, 
here ; nobody can say aught agin that.” 

No, Ralph ; you have been an honest, faithful fellow, I 
believe ; but say on.” 

“ The heart is clean gone out o’ me ! ” said Ralph, while 
his voice shook with emotion, “ and I can ’t do no more, no 
how.” 

“ How ’s that ? What do you mean, Ralph ? ” asked the 
bishop, more and more puzzled. 

“ Why, you see, holy sir, when the light that’s kept these 
old eyes from fadin’, and this lone heart from sinkin’, is taken 
away, I shan’t be good for nothin’, sir.” 

“ Speak plainer, Ralph ; I don’t understand you,” said the 
other ; who, however, did begin to divine the cause of his 
trouble, knowing the extraordinary affection existing between 
the rough being before him and the beautiful child. 

“ Wal, then, great ruv’rence, to be plain-spoken, I can’t 
live here, no how, after my little birdie ’s gone.” 

“ And why not, Ralph ? ” queried the bishop, to draw him 
out. 

“ Why not, indeed ! Should n’t I every mornin’ listen for 
the song of my lark, and hear nothin’ but the pitiful notes o’ 
the birds in the woods, yonder? Shouldn’t I every minit 
hear the pattin’ o’ little feet cornin’ to me, and see nothin’ 
but old Towser a-walkin’ round the garden? Shouldn’t I 
20 


230 


ANNA CLAYTON 


keep watchin’ the door o’ that arbor all day long to see the 
little face, brighter ’n the sun to these eyes, come to cheer 

me, and watch the flowers grow ? Should n’t I ” 

“ Stop, stop, Ralph, that ’ll do ! ” cried the bishop, laugh- 
ing; “you are getting so enthusiastic, you forget yourself. 
No doubt you love this little ‘ birdie,’ as you call her, and so 
do we — no one could help it. But that only makes us the 
more anxious to do everything for her good. You wouldn’t 
want her to grow up in ignorance.” 

She ignorant — my little birdie! You may call Ralph 
that — but not her — no, never I ” 

“ You forget yourself, Ralph I ” said the bishop, more 
sternly. “ It is not for you to judge, but we, who know what 
is right. I shall expect you will, therefore, say no more 
about it, but go to your work — foolish fellow that you are.” 

Ralph made a hasty retreat to his own quarters, where he 
sat down, more troubled than ever. He thought of the cruel 
separation of the brother and sister; of the hard life the 
former must lead in the austere monastery to which he had 
gone ; of the horrors of a convent life, as hinted at by Mar- 
guerite, which his “ birdie” must now meet. And, it must be 
confessed, his respect for all “ ruv’rences ” decreased in the 
same proportion as his anxiety and grief for the children 
increased ; for were they not really the cause of all this 
trouble ? 

He was in this state of mind when Bernaldi returned from 
the cloister whither he had conducted Charlie, and, in pf ssing 
through the garden, saw Ralph in such deep meditation. 

“ How now, Ralph ? ” said he, accosting him ; “ what ’s tho 
matter with you ?” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


231 


** Nothin’ ! ” answered the gardener, gruffly ; “ only I an’t 
a-goin’ to stay here another day, — darn me if I do ! ” 

“ Ha ! ha ! that ’s pretty well, after ten years’ such service 
as you have had here ! What ’s the trouble, now ? ” 

“ I say I can’t stan’ it no how nor no way, another day 
after my little birdie ’s gone — that ’s the trouble.” 

“ O ho ! that ’s the trouble, is it ? But what are you going 
to do about it ? You can ’t see her any more if you go away 
from here than if you stay.” 

“ Wal, I shan’t keep thinkin’ all the time she’s round me, 
as I should here.” 

“ What if I should make a proposition to you, Ralph ? ” 
said Bernaldi, who, for various reasons, could not part with 
this man, — “ what if I should say, if you ’ll do so and so, you 
may go and see Myrtie very often ?” 

“ 0, yur ruv’rence, yur blessed ruv’rence ! ” cried Ralph, 
falling on his knees, “ that ’s all I ’d ask to be yur servant 
forever. I ’d walk on my hands and knees over burnin’ pitch- 
forks ; I’d ” 

“ That ’ll do,” said the priest ; “ I shall not require any 
such service; so you need not spend your breath talking 
about it. But when I want you to do certain things for me, 
which I will tell you some time, you must not flinch nor draw 
back. Will you remember ? ” 

“ Yur ruv’rence, I will remember everything, so that I can 
see my birdie sometimes, I tell ye.” 

Such a load as was lifted from Ralph’s heart! Now he 
can know what treatment Myrtie meets with. Is she happy ? 
does her heart still cling to him, her best friend? and a 
thousand other things, which only his noble heart could have 


232 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


suggested. How earnestly did he watch for the moment when 
he could with safety run and communicate his happiness to the 
cottage inmates ; and, as soon as that moment arrived, seeing 
Bernaldi leave the chateau, how he bounded through the path, 
like one almost crazed, and rushed into their quiet sitting- 
room, catching Myrtie up in his arms, and almost smothering 
her in his joy ! 

“ 0 dear, dear ! ” cried he, “ I can’t stan’ this no better ’n 
I could afore ! Only think, birdie, yur old Ralph ’s goin’ to 
see ye most every day ! ” 

“ What ’s that you say, Ralph ? ” exclaimed Marguerite, 
with eager joy. 

“I say what I mean,” answered the delighted fellow; “ I ’m 
going to see Myrtie very often ; that ’s what his ruv’rence 
said. 0, an’t you glad, birdie ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed, Ralph,” cried Myrtie, hugging him more 
closely. 

“ Rut, Ralph,” said Marguerite, who could scarce believe 
her ears, “ explain yourself ; you cannot see Myrtie, if she 
goes into a convent.” 

“What, not if his ruv’rence gives me leave?” asked he, 
with a knowing look. 

“Yes; but — ” 

“ Yes, but nothin’ ; I tell ye he says I may. Now, an’t ye 
glad, Margery? ’cause ye see you ’ll know all about Myrtie;” 
and he fairly capered — the huge fellow — round the room. 

“ Glad, Ralph ! you can never know how thankful I am for 
such a hope:” exclaimed Marguerite, who saw 'how much 
this would aid her in carrying out her plans. 

“ Now, dear Margery, and you, too, dear Ralph, won’t feel 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


233 


SO bad about my going, will you ? ” said Myrtie, thinking only 
of those she loved best; “but dear, dear Charlie — shan’t I 
ever see him again ? ” and tears forced themselves down her 
cheeks, despite her efforts to prevent them. 

“ Yes, you shall, birdie, if I can manage it ; so, don’t cry 
any more aboit it.” Ralph could see no trouble in anything 
now. 

“ Poor Charlie ! ” sighed Marguerite ; “ how his noble 
spirit will break, and his affectionate heart be crushed, among 
those heartless souls ! But he shall yet be saved,” added she, 
energetically; “I swear it before this cross, and you, Ralph — 
they shall both be saved ! ” 

“ That ’s good, I tell ye,” joined in Ralph ; “ I wish I 
could help ye.” 

“ And so you will ; for, unless you are faithful, it cannot be 
done.” 

“ Have n’t I allers been, since I knew this birdie ? ” 

“Yes, Ralph, and you will live to see your reward, while 
I must soon sink, and justly too, into an unnoticed and un- 
honored grave. But, 0 Blessed Virgin, spare me till justice 
is avenged ! ” 

Myrtie did not comprehend all this, but she saw that Mar- 
gery was unhappy, and, going gently to her side, she laid her 
sweet face, still wet with tears, upon the nurse’s shoulder, ex- 
claiming, “ Bear, dear Margery, don’t be so sad ! I am sure 
the good father will let me come to see you, now you ’re so 
gict — and I love you so much, and Charlie’s gone too.” 

“ You don’t know him as well as I, dear child,” replied 
Margery ; “ I shall never hope to see my darling Myrtie 
again ! ” and she pressed her convulsively to her heart. 

20 * 


234 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


How quickly sped away the sorrowful moments — the last 
which united sinful, fallen nature to the guileless innocence 
of childhood ! Marguerite found herself alone, she scarcely 
knew when or how ; but that she was bereft, forsaken, did not 
- every pulsation of her heart tell her ? Now has her expia- 
tion commenced; and, but for the one burning desire to accom- 
plish it to the utmost, she must have inevitably sank beneath 
consuming disease and grief. Faint not, erring woman ! It 
may yet be that thy contrition will spread for thee a downy 
bed, on which to yield thy last breath in peace. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


“Now warm in love, now withering in thy bloom. 

Lost in a convent’s solitary gloom.” 

Pope. 

Nothing could be sweeter or more winning than the modest, 
humble manner in which Myrtie met the imperious demands 
of the lady superior of the convent where Bernaldi placed 
her. She had been there scarcely a month, and yet, despite 
her youth, she had been subjected to stinging sarcasm, insult, 
and even cruelty, “ to break her in at once,” as that holy 
mother said. But her brave little heart withstood all these 
trials, and, ever repeating to herself Charlie’s last injunction, 
the present was overlooked, or patiently borne, in her bright 
hopes for the future. But not long could the loving heart 
of this fair, sunny little creature endure the chilling blasts 
around her. Courage and hope must alike yield to such ad- 
verse influences, unless, perchance, some kindred spirit breathes 
into her own its warm, gushing affection, and sustains through 
this terrible ordeal her untried soul. 

Thrice had Ralph, true to his promise and himself, begged 
for admission within those barred gates ; the inexorable por- 
tress had ever some ready excuse for disappointing him. 


236 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Sometimes Myrtie had “ gone for a walk,” or she was “ out 
riding with the ladies,” or “ busy with her studies, and could 
not be interrupted ; ” till at length, in his despair, the poor 
fellow complained to his “ ruv’rence,” and besought his inter- 
ference. Bernaldi, finding he could no longer be put off, ac- 
companied him to the convent, and, placing Myrtie in his arms, 
told him to say all he wished quick, as the child must not be 
long delayed from her tasks. 

0, what a world of meaning was there in the wild cry of 
mingled joy and grief with which she clasped her arms around 
that faithful neck ! Naught but tears, which could not be 
restrained, spoke to the true heart beneath ; and yet that heart, 
in bursting agony, drank in the tale of woe. 

“ My birdie, my poor, darling birdie ! ” at length he ex- 
claimed ; “ they ’re killing you, — I know they are ! ” 

Bernaldi stood by with lowering brow, and Myrtie dared 
only murmur, in reply, 

• “ No they are not, but I ’m so lonely without you, B,alph ! ” 
“ It is n’t my fault, duckey, that I have n’t seen you before. 
That cursed old hag at the gate would n’t — ” 

“ Stop ! ” thundered Bernaldi, in a voice which caused them 
both to start ; “is this the way you would teach the child to 
regard those around her ? You will conduct yourself very 
differently, sir, or your interviews with her are at an end.” 

“ I did n’t mean nothin’, yur ruv’rence,” cried Ralph, in- 
timidated at such a threat ; “ but her little pale face and sad 
looks make me almost crazy.” 

“ You did not come here to talk about her looks,” replied 
Bernaldi, tartly, “ but to encourage her to be a good girl, 
which I am afraid she has n’t been since she came.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


237 


Ralph choked down the indignant reply which sprung to 
his lips at this insinuation, lest his “ ruv’rence ” should carry 
his threat into execution, and forbid his coming again to see 
Myrtie. So, concealing his emotion as much as possible, he 
whispered in Myrtie’s ear, 

“Keep up good courage, birdie; you shan’t stay here 
always.” 

The little blue eyes answered him most expressively, as 
they beamed with thankful, hopeful love into his own. But 
Myrtie was learning to be discreet, and, with the dark eyes of 
the priest bent frowningly upon them, how could she pour her 
sorrows where most of all she longed to do ? 

So in silent embrace they sat, and save only in the spirit’s 
deep utterance did each to the other tell its grief. 

“ Come,” said the priest, growing impatient, “ I have no 
more time to fool in this way. Bid your birdie, as you call 
her, good-by, Ralph, and we must return to the chateau ; it ’s 
getting late.” 

One convulsive clasp around his neck, and a kiss in which 
the bitterness of that child-heart was concentrated, and Myr- 
tie sank to the floor, cowering beneath her dress, that she 
might not see him go. ’T was strange to see that rough, un- 
couth being, as he walked slowly away (for Bernaldi had left 
him when he got him outside of the walls), turn, and, stretch- 
ing forth his brawny arms, cry aloud, in the anguish of his 
spirit, till, weakened and overcome by grief, he would sit by 
the wayside, gazing with aching eyes at the walls which im- 
prisoned his “ birdie.” 

How long Myrtie had been crouching upon the floor of the 
desolate room she knew not, when she started to her feet with 


238 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


surprise, as a gentle hand was laid upon her head, and a soft, 
pleasant voice asked, in accents of sympathy, 

“ What is it grieves this little girl so ? ” 

She looked up into the sweet face of the strange lady, and, 
clasping her hands, said, earnestly, 

“ 0, he ’s gone, and now I have n’t any friends ! ” 

“ Who is he ? ” 

“Why, Kalph, my only friend, — that is, except Margery 
and Charlie.” 

“ Poor child ! ” said the lady, pityingly ; “ well do I know 
the desolation this place brings to the heart. I will not ask 
you any more questions now ” (for Myrtie was sobbing on her 
breast), “ but after vespers, to-morrow, come to Sister Agnes’ 
cell, and we will talk together.” 

“ Are you Sister Agnes ? ” asked Myrtie, looking at the 
serge gown and cap of the nun. 

“ That is my name here,” sighed the other, thinking of the 
proud title by which the world had known her. 

“ 0, I ’m so glad to find somebody here that I can love ! ” 
exclaimed the warm-hearted little girl ; “ for I know I shall 
love you. Sister Agnes.” 

“ So you shall, my sweet child ; and Sister Agnes will love 
you, too, very much. But be careful not to say anything 
about it before the others, or they may prevent my seeing 
you. Go, now, and keep up a good heart till to-morrow,” 
added the nun, afiectionately kissing her. 

Childhood’s drooping heart revived a little in this brief 
sunshine, and Myrtie went to her tasks reassured. 

At the same time, in her private parlor, sat Bernaldi, in 
deep, earnest conversation with the lady superior. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


239 


“ I don’t see how we can prevent their meeting sometimes *, 
it ’s the only hold I ’ve got on him now, and a strong one it 
is, too , he ’ll do anything, no matter what, for the sake of 
seeing her.” 

“ I shall look out that it happens but seldom, I promise 
you,” replied the mother ; “ for she ’s hard enough now to 
subdue, and he ’ll only make her worse — the beastly fellow ! ” 

“We can manage it better, by and by,” continued the priest ^ 
“ but for the present it will be necessary to humor him a little, 
or he may flinch from the business.” 

“ Well, it must be as you say, I suppose.” 

“ And, another thing,” added Bernaldi, gently ; “ I would 
recommend you to be rather lenient towards her till we get 
through over there ; it won’t do to undertake too much at 
once, you know.” 

“I’m all obedience, holy father!” replied she, sarcastically. 
“ The child shall be trotted on my knee every day, if you say 
so!” 

“ Come, come, mother ! don’t be vexed. You shall have 
your own way with her very soon ; you know, as well as I, 
what my object is.” 

“ Well, let her rest,” said the lady ; “ but what about Sis- 
ter Agnes? She ’s as incorrigible as ever, though I have tried 
every torture you suggested, till I thought she would die under 
my hands.” 

“ May the devil take her ! ” muttered Bernaldi, his brow 
darkening at the obstinacy of the poor nun. “We must 
change our course towards her. Severity won’t move her ; 
we ’ll try what fldttery and pretended kindness ’ll do.” 

“ I ’ll leave that game for you to play ! ” said the haughty 


240 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


woman ; “ I Ve no fancy for such things. It ’s my opinion, 
though, that nothing we can do will change her determina- 
tion.” 

“ She sJwll change, or, by heavens, I ’ll put her out of the 
way, and make a will to suit myself! ” cried the infuriated 
priest. 

“ That ’s what you ought to have done long ago,” coolly 
answered the superioress. 

“ I should, but for Lord De Yere’s brother,” said Bernaldi. 
“He still holds Lady Emilie’s property, and would not be 
likely to give it up without a strict investigation.” 

“ He does not know where she is, you say.” 

“No, nor never will. I have told him that she has gone 
to France, and he thinks she is still there. He would not 
dream of looking for her so near home.” 

“ Well, but, if we should succeed in getting her to make 
this will, how would you manage ? ” 

“Why, don’t you see? I should tell him she came here 
the very day before she died, and, calling for a lawyer, caused 
such a will to be drawn up and sealed, without our knowledge 
or consent ; and then handing him the will, still sealed, he 
could suspect nothing.” 

“ No doubt, you would make a good story of it ! ” said th3 
mother, laughing. “ Come, let ’s have a glass of wine over it, 
and drink to the success of oil our plans ! ” 


Myrtle crept softly through the narrow, dark hall, on each 
side of which were ranged the cells of the hapless inmates, 
and, reaching at length one which had been designated as 
Sister Agnes’, she knocked timidly, and was quickly admit- 


^ anna CLAYTON. 241 

ted by the nun into her little dormitory. Blinded by her 
tears the day before, Myrtie had not noticed how pale and 
emaciated Sister Agnes looked, and she started at the wan 
face and figure before her. The nun smiled sadly, as she 
drew the little girl closely to her side, and, throwing her arm 
affectionately round her, said, 

“ You are not afraid I am a ghost, are you ? ” 

“ 0, no, ma’am ! ” replied Myrtie, but I ’m sorry to see 
you look so sick ! ” 

A tear dropped from the nun’s eye at these simple words, 
the first of sympathy she had heard for many a year, and she 
felt strangely drawn to the little creature beside her. 

“ What is your name, dear ? ” she asked. 

“ Myrtie, ma’am ! ” 

“ Myrtie, — that ’s a very pretty name ! How old are 
you?” 

“ I ’m twelve, and Charlie ’s fourteen.” 

“ Who ’s Charlie, pray ? ” said Sister Agnes, amused at the 
child’s earnestness and simplicity. 

“ Why, Charlie ’s my brother, ma’am ! ” answered Myrtie, 
with a little surprise that he should not be known by every- 
body. 

“Where is he now, Myrtie?” 

The eye drooped and the little bosom heaved, as she replied, 

“ They ’ve put him into some such bad place as this, I sup- 
pose ; ” then, growing bolder, she added, “ but we mean to get 
away when we ’re older.” 

“ What do you mean by that, my child ? ” asked the aston- 
ished nun. 

“0, I mustn’t tell, cause Charlie told me not to; but 

21 


242 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


you would n’t hurt us, would you ? ” and Myrtle looked up, 
with confiding innocence, into the sweet, sad face above her. 

“ Hurt you, my poor child ! ” exclaimed Sister Agnes, 
becoming more and more interested, — “ never, mver ! Come, 
sit down here and tell me all your little story ; for Sister 
Agnes will be your friend always.” 

Myrtle did not doubt her in the least ; and she confided all 
she knew of herself, Charlie, Margery and Ralph, into the 
ear of her willing and sympathizing listener. When she had 
done, Sister Agnes pressed her more closely to her heart, and 
imprinted a warm kiss on her cheek. 

“ Myrtle, darling,” said she, “ your short life has been a 
sad one, but such suffering as you never dreamed of awaits 
you in this place. You must not stay here. But go now, 
dear, or you will be missed ; come to me as often as you 
can slip away without being seen, for my heart will long 
for your innocent sympathy, to beguile its wretchedness.” 

“ Sweet child ! ” murmured the nun, closing the door 
after Myrtle’s retreating form, and throwing herself upon 
her hard pallet ; — “ must she too be sacrificed ? No, it must 
not, shall not be ! Though I may never see my childhood’s 
home, or the dear friends of my youth, this poor lamb must 
be restored to its fold. How strangely has she touched a 
chord in my memory, bringing back long-forgotten scenes 
and familiar faces of the world in which I once lived ! And 
for what have I exchanged those sweet memories ? — ay, for 
what!' Let the gloomy walls of this my prison-house hear 
my reply : — For an existence terrible as the tortures of a lost 
soul I 0, my beloved father, for this have I left you to die 
in loneliness and grief; — for this I have sacrificed every 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


243 


earthly hope ! And now, as my soul is swiftly passing to its 
dread account, what have I to look or hope for ? Nothing, 
nothing, but the darkness and despair of an unknown fu- 
turity ! ” 


CHAPTEE XXV. 


“ T is fearful building upon any sin ; 

One mischief entered, brings another in j 
The second pulls a third, the third draws more, 

And they for all the rest set ope the door.’* 

“I TELL ye, J udy, your coffee ’s thicker ’n mud, and these 
rolls ’d weigh a pound a piece ! I can’t eat none on ’em, any 
way ! ” — and Ealph bounced out of the house, slamming the 
door after him, and leaving untasted the nice breakfast Judy 
had so carefully prepared for him. 

“ Goodness gracious ! ” exclaimed she, placing her hands 
on her hips, and looking with astonishment through the win- 
dow at his ungainly figure as it shambled down the garden, — 
» what Jms come over that fellow ? Why, he ’s only fit for the 
madhouse, and hasn’t been, since those children went away. 
Coffee all muddy, indeed ! when I made it fresh and nice, 
and settled it with an egg a-purpose for him ! O, laws a 
massy ! well, I b’lieve men are all alike, after all ! ” — and, 
with this sage conclusion, she sat down in moody silence to 
partake the slighted repast. 

Ealph weeded away most vigorously in his large flower-bed, 
often, in his abstraction, mistaking one for the other, till the 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


245 


confused mass at his feet recalled his attention, and he hastily 
gathered up the waste in a basket, and deposited it in an un- 
noticed corner of the garden. While thus occupied, a sound 
like that of a person scratching on the other side of the wall 
attracted his attention, and, climbing up, he perceived a man 
with the cowl and cassock of an Augustine friar. At the 
same instant, the monk, looking up, accosted him 
“ Are you Ralph, the gardener ? ” 

“ I ’m Ralph Riley, and nobody else ! ” was his reply. 

“ Well, come down to that little opening in the wall, yonder. 
I have something to say to you.” 

Ralph looked a little suspicious, but he moved along 
to the place designated, and waited for the stranger to 
speak. 

“ You had a little boy here,” said the monk, in a whisper, 
“ named Charlie. Do you know what has become of him ? ” 
“ He ’s gone to the St. Augustine,” answered Ralph, la- 
conically. 

“ Have you ever tried to see him ? ” 

“ No, ’cause it’s no use.” 

“ Would you like to see and talk with him ? ” 

« Would n’t I ! ” cried Ralph, looking up, joyfully. 

« Well, the poor fellow is nearly heart-broken ; and I took 
pity on him, and promised to find you out, and bring him 
tidings of his little sister, Myrtie.” 

“ Then, he ’s told ye about her,” — and Ralph’s countenance 
fell ; — » but, he ’ll never see her agin.” 

“ How ? Why so ? ” 

« O, she ’s gone to be a nun ; but they ’ll kill her afore 
she ’s old enough for that ! ” 

21 * 


246 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ When did she go ? ” asked the monk, without noticing 
the last part of Ralph’s answer. 

“ About a month ago — the day after Charlie went away.” 

A shade of disappointment crossed Father Ambrose’s face 
(for it was he) ; and, after a moment’s thoughtfulness, he said, 

“ Poor Charlie ! it will almost kill him to hear of this ; but, 
if you will come to this place just after sundown to-night, I 
will manage some way to get him here, so that you can tell 
him all about it. He will bear it better from you.” 

“ I ’ll be here, and thank ye too,” Ralph quickly rejoined, 
and they parted. 

“ Wal,” thought he, “ I ’m mighty glad he ’s got a friend ; 
but my poor birdie ’s all alone ’mong them great ugly nuns. 
I must go ’n tell Margery ’bout this.’’ 

Pity, indignation and grief, alternately prevailed in the 
gardener’s heart, as he poured out its wretchedness to his 
willing listener. 

“ Now, Ralph,” said Marguerite, as he concluded, “you must 
know the great purpose for which I pray that my life may be 
spared. These children, Ralph, — that noble boy, and Myr- 
tle, lovely as an angel, — must he rescued from the terrible fate 
to which they are consigned. You do not know the reason 
of their treatment ; but listen, and I will tell you. Their father. 
Sir Charles Duncan, left an immense property, which, at the 
death of their grandmother, will fall to these two alone. Now, 
the bishop — yes, Ralph, the hkhop and priest together — have 
planned to keep these children within their grasp, that they 

may secure the property to themselves, and the church. 

Shame upon me ! I was a third party in this wrong; but my 
eyes are opened, and my heart too, I trust, and now I only 


ANNA OLAYTON. 


247 


live to make reparation. You, Ralph, better than anybody 
else, can aid me in this ; and, after the little you have seen 
of what their life must be as they are, I know you will do 
everything in your power.” 

“ That I will,”^said Ralph, to whom this version of the case 
was new ; “ but what ’ll we do ? ” 

We must send those children back to their excellent 
mother,” slowly and emphatically replied Marguerite. 

Ralph scratched his head, in the greatest bewilderment. 
“ How are ye ’gon to do it ? ” he asked. 

“I- do not know myself yet; but I feel persuaded there 
will some way open for them. I may die first, but you, 
Ralph, must never rest till it is accomplished. Will you 
promise me this ? ” 

“Yes, I promise;” and Ralph crossed himself, with so* 
lemnity. 

“ All you can do now,” continued Marguerite, “ is to cheer 
them up, and encourage them to hope for the future. 

“ I ’ll tell Charlie, to-night, that as sartin as you and I live 
he ’ll be got away from that hole,” said Ralph, warming up. 
“ And I could n’t help sayin’ some such thing to my poor 
birdie when she looked so drefful at me.” 

“ You did right, Ralph ; we will save them yet.’' 

“ I don’t see how it ’s ’gon to be done ; but I ’ll tell ’em so, 
any how.” And Ralph left the cottage more puzzled, but with 
a lighter heart, than he entered it. 

It was dusk when he repaired to the rendezvous the monk 
had proposed, so that he could not see Charlie’s pale face, or 
its woe-begone expression ; but the tremulous voice with which 
the little fellow begged to see his sister completely overcame 


248 


ANNA CLAYTON, 


Ralph, and the big tears chased each other down his cheek 
as he told the boy of Myrtie and her trials. Father Ambrose 
stood by, but something seemed to affect his eyes, and he 
turned away to wipe them. 

“ Charlie ! ” whispered Ralph, “ guess what Margery and 
I ’ve been talkin’ about, this afternoon ; we ’re ’gon to git you 
away from here, and send you home to your mother.” 

“ How can you, Ralph ? ” asked Charlie. 

“ That ’s jest what I asked myself, but we ’re ’gon to, some 
how.” 

“ O, Ralph, how kind you are to say that ! Ever since I 
came here I ’ve prayed to see my mother ; and one night I 
thought I saw her among the angels ; but I ’m afraid I shall 
die before I can go to her.” 

No fear o that, Charlie, if ye only keep up good heart. 
Ye can stan’ it a spell longer in that ’tarnal old hole, can’t 
ye?” 

“ O, yes, Ralph ; I could bear anything if I knew I should 
go with Myrtie and live at our own home again.” 

“ Wal, jest consider that ’s settled, and cheer up, my boy.’* 

“ I will, Ralph ; but can’t I see Myrtie again till then ? ” 

“ I don’t see no way ; they keep her mighty close ; ’t was 
as much as I could do to get one sight o’ her sweet face.” 

Charlie’s breast heaved, and tears fell thick and fast at this 
disappointment; but the severe discipline of the last few 
weeks had taught him to control his feelings, which he quickly 
did, and, with a trembling voice, sent a message of love to 
the dear sister he had so longed to see. 

Father Ambrose had not been an unmoved spectator of this 
scene. For years his heart had not been so touched as now, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


249 


and he could with difficulty restrain himself from falling on 
the boy’s neck, to weep with him in his misery. From that 
moment the orphans cause became his own, and with heart 
and soul he entered into all their plans, proving himself a 
friend indeed to the friendless, and cheering Charlie on 
through trials and sufferings, by ever pointing to a golden 
future as the requital for all these woes. 

Ralph’s perplexity increased each day, as a thousand new 
schemes were planned and rejected by him and Marguerite, 
while still the burden seemed resting on them. 

“ We must try to be patient,” Marguerite would say to 
him ; “ such a daring feat as ours requires time, as well as 
the most careful management. I do not doubt we shall 
accomplish it; but it may be months, and even years, hence.” 

“ 0, dear, dear, and my birdie feelin’ so dreffully ! I tell 
ye, she can’t stan’ it, no way.” And Ralph would run off to 
conceal his agitation. 

One day he came to Marguerite, with a very serious air, 
and asked her to bring him a cup of tea, at the same time 
taking from his pocket a small paper. 

“ Why, Ralph,” said she, “ what is the matter now? what 

are you going to do ? ” 

“ You ’ll see, Margery, if you bring me the tea.” And, 
willing to indulge him in his strange conceit, she made the 
tea and brought it to him. Very deliberately unfolding the 
little paper, he poured its contents into the cup. 

* “ There ! ” said he, “ now I ’ve done what I promised to ; 
but I would n’t advise ye to drink it, that ’s all.” 

More astonished than ever. Marguerite exclaimed, » Why, 
Ralph ! what does all this mean ? 


250 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Don’t ye know,” said he, coming close to her, and speak- 
iig very low, “ his ruv’rence told me I might go to see Myrtie 
if I ’d do somethin’ for him ’thout tellin’ on ’t ? ” 

“ Yes, Ralph, — but go on ! ” 

•“ Wal, this mornin’, jest as I was cornin’ over here, he cum 
down the garden mighty pleasant-like, and says he, ‘ Have 
you seen Marguerite lately ? ’ I told him no, but I ’s jest goin’ 
over there. ‘ Was ye ? ’ says he ; ‘ then I want to say some- 
thin’ to ye first ;’ and, upon that, he took this paper out o’ his 
pocket, and says he, ‘ You know, Ralph, you promised to do 
anything I bid ye, if I let ye see Myrtie often.’ 

“ ‘ Often ! ’ said I ; ‘ but I have n't seen her but once, and 
then I had to come to yur ruv’rence afore they ’d let me in.* 
“ ‘ 0, well,’ said he, ‘ you may be sure that won’t hap- 
pen agin ; they did n’t understand it over there ; you may go 
to-morrow, if ye wish.’ I jumped right up, I tell ye, when 
he said that. ‘ But,’ ses he, ‘ you must first do as I tell ye.’ 
‘ That I will,’ ses I ; and then he gave me this paper, and told 
me it was somethin’ to make ye stronger, and that I must jest 
put it into yur tea, ’thout yur knowin it. ‘ Yes, sir, yur 
ruv’rence,’ ses I, ‘ I ’ll do it.’ I did n’t let on that I ’spected 
anything; but I thought ’t would be jest as well if ye knowed 
what he said.” 

“ Ralph, you are a noble fellow ; you have saved my life. 
I have known for a long time that he wished me out of the 
way ; but I ’m too wary for him. Well he knew that none 
other could have done this deed ; but you I should not have 
watched, and, therefore, he chose his instrument well.” 

“ What ’ll I say to him, though, when he asks me ’bout it ? ” 
“ Tell him you iid as he bid you, and leave the rest to me, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


251 


Poor, pitiful fool ! my vengeance is not yet completed, as he 
shall find, to his sorrow.” 

“ I could n’t have you die, no how, I tell ye,” said Kalph, 
his eyes glistening. 

“ I don’t expect to liv^ long, Ralph ; something within 
tells me my days are numbered ; but not by his hand must I 
die, though he thus wills it. Profess strict obedience to him, 
Ralph, but fail not to confide to me dll he says ; for thm only 
can those children he saved ! ” 

“I’ll do it — never fear but what I will!’ Ralph ex- 
claimed, earnestly. 

“ Are you going to see Myrtie to-morrow ? ” 

“ Indeed I am ; I must cheer up my poor birdie, or she ’ll 
die.” 

“ Tell her Margery loves her, prays for her, and will try 
to save her.” 

“ I ’ll tell her we ’re goin’ to save her. I tell ye it makes 
me feel right wicked to have her shut up so from all the buds 
and flowers, and nice frolics, she used to like so well.” 

“ It won’t be long, Ralph ; she ’ll soon be as free as the 
birds.” 

“ That ’s a fact, and Ralph Riley’s old feet ’ll follow her 
to the world’s end. I must go home now, or his ruv’rence 
’ll be missin’ me ; look out all round, Margery, won’t ye? ” 

“You may be sure I shall, more now than ever, after 
what you have told me, Ralph.” 

Much to his surprise and gratification, Ralph was admitted 
without a question to the spacious hall of the convent, and 
Myrtie came bounding with joy to meet him. For a few 
moments he neither knew nor cared for aught save that his 


252 ANNAOLAYTON 

birdie was in his arms once more. Then, as he held her from 
him to see if she had changed, he became conscious that a pair 
of gray eyes were fixed steadily upon them, watching every 
word and movement. This so disconcerted him that he could 
only clasp Myrtie more closely to his heart, in silence. At 
length a loud knocking at the outer door, and the entrance of 
visitors, diverted the attention of the superioress, and Kalph 
improved the opportunity thus afibrded him to whisper words 
of comfort and hope into his birdie’s heart. That little heart 
beat quick at the mention of Charlie’s name, and his simple, 
affectionate message was treasured midst her tears. Then her 
little confidences were all poured into the ear ever open to her 
slightest word, and Ralph was made acquainted with all dear 
Sister Agnes had said and done, and how she had promised to 
try and help her to get away from the convent, before she was 
,old enough to take the veil. 

What a relief it was to her faithful, true-hearted friend, 
when Myrtie assured him that she had not been treated so 
badly since he was there before ! To be sure, nobody but 
Sister Agnes had spoken a pleasant word to her; but then 
they did n’t whip her, and make her lie all night on a hard 
stone floor, as they used to, and so she got along pretty 
well, and he must nol cry any more about her, for she could 
bear it till 

She did not finish this sentence, for the sharp gray eyes 
were again upon them; and the mother said, in no very 
pleasant tone, 

“Your whispered conference has been too long, already; 
you will go directly to your tasks, Myrtie, and your old 
friend will be careful not to repeat his long visit again.” 


4 


ANNA CLAYTON. 253 

What cared Ralph for her sour words and looks ? He had 
held his birdie to his heart, and found her better than his 
fears anticipated; and was he not soon to see her free 
among the hills of her own native home? Lighter-hearted 
than he had been since Myrtie left the cottage, Ralph returned 
to his labor and his schemes. 

22 


CHAPTER XXTI. 


** And doth not a meeting like this make amends 
For all the long years I ’ve been wandering away ? * 

Ten years ! And liow lightly has their swift passage 
touched the cheek and brow of Herbert Lindsey’s lovely wife ! 
Care and trouble have been strange guests in their peaceful 
manse ; and, but for the deep sympathy which made the 
sorrows of another her own, Bessie’s days would have been 
pg,ssed in almost cloudless sunshine. The little olive-plants that 
gather around her table give her a matronly air, by no means 
unbecoming ; and if the man of God, in rebuking sin among 
his people, often feels that pride and idolatry are to be espe- 
cially guarded against in his own heart, as he gazes at his 
home treasures, who can wonder? Herbert Lindsey feels, 
and rightly, too, that to the humble, fervent piety and holy 
example of his wife may be traced, in a great measure, his 
own eminent success. Beloved he certainly is for his many 
excellences and devotion to his spiritual calling; but the 
words of wisdom which fall from his lips seem to have a deeper 
significance in the pure and heavenly life shining forth from 
the pastor’s home. 

And Anna, too, whom we left long years since at the bridal 
altar, mingling with its sacred vows a mother’s unceasing 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


255 


prayers for her lost ones, — how has her heart been sustained 
in its still hopeless bereavement ? Alas ! the grave must 
long since have given its silent response, but for the noble, 
unwearying devotion of him who uttered no unmeaning vow 
when he received to his heart the broken flower, and promised 
to cherish and protect it from every rude blast. Well and 
faithfully has he kept that pledge ; and, though each year 
the fragile form of his beautiful bride bends more droopingly 
upon his bosom, as the mother’s hopes, one by one, fade away, 
yet the warm, loving glance which ever meets his own tells 
him that in her spirit’s shrine he is forever embalmed. Dear 
to him is the task of winning back the beloved life he has ever 
worshipped ; and happiness deep and unutterable, though 
often sad and subdued, reigns in the home of Robert Gra- 
ham. Their little coterie of friends remains unbroken ; for 
death, at that fell tragedy, stood back aghast, daring only to 
point its skeleton finger to the circle vanquished by a more 
terrible foe. 

Seventy winters tell their snowy tale in the venerable 
locks of the village squire, while Mrs. Clayton still faith- 
fully retains her post by his side, cheering him through 
life’s last days, untouched herself by time’s quick flight. 

Near the old stone mansion Robert reared a beautiful home 
for his bride ; and now another, no less costly or elegant, is 
placed by its side, and Nelly Lee, proud and happy, is its 
presiding genius. Like a butterfly she flits through each 
bappy home, carrying light and joy to all ; then, closing her 
wings in her own bower, she sinks with a grateful, overflow- 
ing heart, and pours forth her simple orisoas for him who has 


256 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


thus sheltered her from the cold storms of this pitiless world 
in his paternal arms. 

Nelly must needs be grateful ; for the true-hearted Quaker 
has nobly redeemed his promise to the friendless child of 
charity, and no father could more tenderly watch over his 
own than does James Lee cherish his adopted daughter. Only 
one cause had Nelly for unhappiness ; that was in the obscur- 
ity of her birth. Could she be assured that honest though 
abject poverty had been the lot of her parents, then would her 
mind be at rest ; but the blood tingled painfully through her 
veins as the humiliating thought often forced itself upon her 
that she might be the child of shame. She would not disturb 
the peace of her dear father — for so had she learned to call 
Mr. Lee — by such vague fancies; but still they preyed silently 
upon her young heart. 

Of his early history Mr. Lee seldom spoke, save to Kobert 
and his wife ; and they only gathered that some great sorrow 
had burdened his youth, the secret of which would go with 
him to his grave. But not thus was the calm, submissive 
spirit in which he had received these sore chastisements to 
be rewarded — not such the requital of his kindness to the 
orphan ! 

“ A letter for you, father,” said Nelly, as he came home, 
one evening, “ and a singular-looking missive it is, too ; ” and 
she handed him a package bearing a foreign stamp and seal. 
He took it, gazed earnestly at the superscription, and then, as 
his eye fell on the stamp, he trembled violently, and retired 
to his own room before breaking the seal. One, two, and even 
three hours passed, and still he returned not, till Nelly, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


257 


unable longer to^endure the suspense, ventured to knock 
timidly at his door. 

“ Come in, dear child,” he cried ; and, holding out his hand 
as she approached him, he said, in an agitated voice, “ Come 
hither, my daughter ; here is a mystery to be unravelled.” 

“ Does it nearly concern you, father, and is it anything 
very serious?” she inquired, anxiously. 

More serious, and more nearly concerning me, than thee 
can imagine, Nelly ! But first I must tell thee that which I 
had thought to bury with me — a tale of wretchedness that 
made this world a wilderness, till thou, dear child, stirred 
again the fountain of love in my heart ! ” He paused, and 
Nelly drew nearer to him, clasping his hand with filial affec- 
tion, while she exclaimed, 

“ What does not the poor orphan owe to this hand, that 
raised her from degradation, and suffered her to win a place 
in the noblest heart that ever throbbed ! ” 

“ Nay, nay, my child ! thou knoWest not how thou hast 
brought back to life thy poor father. When all his sad tale 
is told thee, then, perhaps, thou wilt see the glorious mission 
it has been given thee to fulfil.” 

“ Bless you, my dear father, for these words ! and now I 
listen with intense interest to your story, and the connection 
it has with that letter.” 

Mr. Lee shaded his face, that its varying emotions might 
not be visible to her, and then proceeded : 

“ In my early youth, Nelly, I wooed and won a beautiful 
bride. Carrie Linton, an only daughter, beloved by all, and 
sought by many richer and more noble than I, gave to me tho 
priceless treasure of her love ; and I could only worship and 
22 * 


258 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


idolize the being who had thus ennobled nae. In my eyes she 
was all perfection ; but friends, who lookef with calmer gaze 
at this paragon, cautioned me against her light and trifling 
character. Blinded as I was, it seemed to me but the exu- 
berance of a happy, loving heart, all too soon to be checked 
by the serious, earnest life which she well knew awaited her 
as my wife. She loved me passionately (0,1 will never doubt 
that ! ), and we both trusted to the serenity of the future for 
our happiness. Her friends, too, saw the incongruity of the 
gay, fashionable belle becoming a sober Quaker’s wife. But 
when did love ever stop to consider or reason ? 

“ Carrie and I were married in the full expectation of a 
quiet, blissful union ; and for weeks and months naught dis- 
turbed our deep, tranquil happiness, while she was pronounced 
by all a model Quaker’s wife. The advent of a little being, 
who usurped her mother’s name, and inherited her beauty, 
seemed to perfect our joy. Thus were the skies bright above 
us, and, as we thought, our path strewed with flowers. When 
little Carrie was three months old, I was called to England to 
attend to some important business, and left, with many tears, 
my home Eden. Little thought I that a ser'pent was lurking 
around that sacred bower. 

“ My wife, engrossed with the care of her little nursling 
and other home duties, seldom wrote; but the charming simplic- 
ity of her affectionate messages repaid me for their scarcity. 
The business which called me away proved much more intri- 
cate than I had anticipated, and consequently detained me 
abroad beyond .all my expectations. I had not heard from 
home for many months, when one morning a package was 
handed me, bearing the familiar stamp, but in a strange hand- 




ANNA CLAYTON. 


259 


writing. I tore it open with a vague presentiment of coming 
evil But who can picture my despair when, devouring its 
contents, I learned that my wife, at the instigation of base 
calumniators and the entreaties of her friends, had left for- 
ever her husband and home, and that legal proceedings were 
already commenced^ for our separation ! Again and again 
did those terrible words burn themselves into my brain, ere I 
realized their dread import. Then, when the overwhelming 
truth forced itself upon me, delirium mercifully blotted out 
those first hours of anguish, and I awoke to consciousness 
under the gentle ministrations of my kind hostess, and excel- 
lent physician, who, the better to understand my case, deemed 
it necessary to read the dreadful letter. Unutterable sym- 
pathy dwelt in every line of their faces, as they bent over me 
in unwearied efforts to restore the shattered senses. 

“ Despite all their remonstrances, I determined to return at 
once to my home (alas! no more a home for. me), and prevent, 
if possible, the terrible consummation. But I arrived too 
late ! Slander had scattered its foul venom before me ; and 
I, who had been toiling day and night that I might the sooner 
return to my loved ones, was stigmatized as a base deserter 
of my wife and child for the low-born pleasures of a volup- 
tuary ! The fiat had gone forth — my doom was sealed, and 
my home stripped of its idols ! Agonizingly I besought one 
interview with her who was my wife ; but, to prevent this, 
they had removed her far away, and I never saw her again. 
It was in vain to refute the charges ; it could not give me 
back my treasures, and what cared I for aught else ? Since 
that time I have wandered over the earth, finding neither rest 
nor happiness, till Umi, dear Nelly, came like a God-scud to 


260 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


my heart, and opened again its sweet fountains. To me hast 
thou been as my own child ! ” 

“ 0, my father ! ” cried Nelly, raising her streaming eyes 
to his, “what sorrows have been yours! — and yet you endure 
all in uncomplaining silence ! ” 

“ There is my strength, my daughter ! ” said he, pointing 
above, “ and there, only, can the secrets of my heart be dis- 
closed. But when I meet her pure spirit above, then, then 
will she kmw the truth and faithfulness of her husband I ” 

“ But what has this to do with it, father?” asked Nelly, 
pointing to the letter. 

“ Much, every way, my dear ; for it gives me the startling 
information that my child still exists in some place unknown 
to her maternal relatives. It seems — though I knew it not 
before — that Carrie left them all, and sought some obscure 
place, where she lived in sorrow, and died with grief. Her 
dear remains still rest they know not where, and my own 
child is, like me, a wanderer on the earth. A large fortune 
(so this letter tells me) awaits her when found. But not for 
that will I now seek her. Heaven grant me the precious boon 
of clasping once more to my heart this dear image of my lost 
Carrie ! ” 

“ Amen ! ” responded Nelly, from her heart. 

Mr. Lee gazed lovingly at the unselfish, noble girl, as he 
added, “To-morrow I must leave thee; and, should my 
prayers be answered, thou wilt lose no place in thy father’s 
heart.” 

“ Think not of me, dear father I ” she replied ; “ my heart 
will pray unceasingly for your success, and the happiest 
moment of my life will be when I see your Carrie locked in 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


261 


her father’s arms ! ” Had the gift of prophecy been conferred 
on Nelly, she could not have spoken more truthfully. 

The next morning, pale and agitated, James Lee went forth 
on his errand of love. Weeks passed ere the faintest trace of 
his lost treasures could be found ; yet he wearied not in his 
ceaseless search. At length an incident, trifling in itself, led 

him to the obscure but charming village of W , where 

he learned from an old lady that, many years before, a lady 
and child inhabited the small cottage near her, just in the 
edge of the wood. She “ could tell but little about them,” 
she said, “ for, if her memory served her right, no one knew 
or visited them.” Where they went, or what became of them, 
she did not know, for she “ went away about that time to live 
with her daughter.” 

Vague and unsatisfactory as was this information, it yet 
determined Mr. Lee to remain and trace the history of this 
lady. He soon chanced to meet a nurse, who had been em- 
ployed in that capacity for thirty years, and professed to 
know everything about everybody. From her he drew all 
that was necessary to convince him that here, indeed, his lost 
Carrie lived and died. Where she was laid not even the old 
nurse could tell ; and his widowed heart wandered among the 
graves, if perchance her spirit might lead him to its resting- 
place. 

But his daughter — where was she? All that he could 
learn was, that some person had taken her away ; but where 
none knew, or what was to be her fate. Sadly the father 
pursued his anxious search, — hope and fear alternately pre- 
vailing in his breast, — till finally his perseverance was re- 
warded by hearing that the little orphan child (as she was 


262 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


supposed to be) tad been carried to a remote town. Thither 
he went at once, only to learn that from thence she had been 
removed to another town, more distant, and so on. Following 
the wanderings of the friendless girl, he had well-nigh yielded 
to his anxiety and grief for the fate of his only, darling child. 
With what surprise and consternation did he at length trace 

her to the pauper’s home in the village of B , the very 

place he had so often visited with Bessie, and from whose 
church-yard he had taken Nelly to his home ! 

A thousand wild, delirious fancies filled his brain, as he 
thought of Nelly’s story of her own childhood and unknown 
parentage. Heart-sick with suspense, and unable to control 
his agitation, the bewildered father entered the asylum of 
poverty, and hurriedly inquired if any of its inmates bore 
the name of Carrie Lee. 

“ Not any,” was the laconic answer. 

“ But such an one did come here, in the year 18 — ? ” 
“Very likely,” answered the overseer, “ but I was not here 
at that time.” 

“ Hast thou no records ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, but the town-clerk keeps them.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, friend,” exclaimed Mr. Lee, slipping 
gome money into his hand, “ go bring me those records ! ” 

The man obeyed with alacrity this golden order, and soon 
returned with the important documents. With trembling 
hands Mr. Lee turned over page after page, till, in the very 
year he had named, he found an entry of the reception, not 
of Carrie, but of Nelly Lee. The most careful scrutiny 
proved that no other of that name had been entered there. 
Scarcely daring to trust his thoughts, the half-crazed father 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


263 


found the widow of the former overseer, who was in nowise 
loth to give him a bit of the gossip of her palmy days. Dis- 
tracted between uncertainty and hope, his incoherent questions 
were slightly heeded by the woman, who evidently thought him 
a little “ out of his head.” The rare opportunity, however, 
of displaying her knowledge, could not be resisted, and she 
rattled on most unmercifully about all the children “ she had 
been a mother to.” Mr. Lee listened with the utmost impa- 
tience, hoping she would at length reach the longed-for name ; 
nor was he disappointed. “ Then,” said she, “ there was the 
poorest little creetur you ever did see cum one day, with a 
man, who sed they ’d kep her long enough in his town, and we 
must take our spell. She ’d been round every town jist so, — 
nobody knowed where she cum from, or who she’d ever be- 
longed to. I tuk a mighty likin’ to her, she ’s so terrible 
putty ; so I kep her longer ’n I need to, and then an old maid, 
here. Miss Nancy, took her right hum with her, and made a 
darter on her. She was mighty curus ’bout her name, tho’. 
Sumtimes she ’d say ’t was Carrie, and then she ’d cry to be 

called Nelly ; so my old man put it on to his books Lord 

a’marcy, the man ’s gone clean crazy ! ” — exclaimed she, as 
with her last words Mr. Lee rushed out of the house and 
down the street as far as she could see, — “I guess I ’ll bar 
my door, cause I ’m a lone widder, and like as not he ’ll be 
back agin.” So saying, she secured her house, and sat down 
to consider the event, while the object of her fears was ridin^^ 
in hot haste towards his home, his heart bounding with wild 
ecstacy. 

“ Come, Anna,” said Mrs. Lindsey, one pleasant morning, 

“ I have called for you to walk with me over to Nelly’s.” 


264 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ I have been thinking of the same thing this morning, 
Bessie, and will be ready to join you in a few moments.” 

“ Don’t you think Nelly is very much changed since Mr. 
Lee went away ? ” asked Anna, as they pursued their walk. 

“ Poor girl, she seems lonely and low-spirited, I think ! ” 
said Bessie. “ She is so fond of him, she cannot bear to have 
him out of her sight.” 

I know she is,” said Anna, “ but it seems to me that is 
not aU that troubles her. Have you noticed how pale and 
careworn she looks, of late, as though some secret sorrow 
preyed upon her ? ” 

“ You are a closer observer than I, Anna ; I confess I have 
not thought much of it. But there she is, coming out to meet 
us pishe must answer for herself.” 

“ Nelly, dear,” said Anna, when they were quietly seated, 
“ we have been thinking that you look quite sad, lately.” 

“ Do I ? ” answered Nelly, smiling. “ I am very far from 
feeling sad just at this moment, I am so glad to see you 
both ! ” 

“ When do you expect Mr. Lee ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you,” said Nelly ; “ his return is very uncer- 
tain. I look for him every day, and yet he may not come for 
weeks — perhaps months.” 

“ I miss him very much,” said Bessie ; “ our circle never 
seems complete without him.” 

“And Robert,” added Anna, “'can scarcely get along 
without his right-hand man, as he calls Mr. Lee.” 

Scarcely were these words uttered, when all three started, 
as a carriage drove furiously up to the door. 

“ There he is ! ” cried Nelly, violently agitated, and at the 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


265 


same moment James Lee burst into the room, and caught 
her to his heart. “ My daughter ! my own child ! ” he cried : 
“ thank God, I have found thee at last ! ” Then, as Nelly 
looked wonderingly in his face, he added, “ Dear, precious 
image of my lost Carrie, why have I not before seen thy 
mother’s wondrous beauty in thy sweet face ? Nelly, thou art 
indeed mine I ’Tis ihy father's arms that embrace thee — 
thine own father ! Thou art no more Nelly, but the sweet 
namesake of her that bore thee, my sainted Carrie ! ” 

Joy like this who can picture? — when the dark waves 
that have so long rolled and dashed at will against his strug- 
gling heart are stayed^ and a gentle voice comes o’er the 
waters, crying “ Peace, peace ! ” And thou too, noble girl, 
hast now gained the only desire of thy heart — an honor^le 
•parentage. 

Sincere and heart-felt were the tears of joy that mingled 
with his own, as Mr. Lee told his tale to the two friends who 
had witnessed the strange scene. If in Anna’s heart some 
murmuring thoughts would whisper what might have been her 
joy, that heart replied, at once, “ My Father rules the storm,” 
and hushed were its murmurings. 

“Who can now distrust the beneficence of our God?” 
exclaimed Mr. Lee, in the fulness of his heart. “ Friend 
Anna, thm 'It yet see joy as great as mine — the spirit within 
tells me thus.” 

Mournfully shaking her head, Anna joined her friend in 
silence, and in deep thought both pursued their homeward 
way. 


23 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


** 0 ! think what anxious moments pass between 
The birth of plots and their last fatal periods ! 

0 ! ’t is a dreadful interval of time. 

Filled up with horror and big with death ! ” 

Addison. 

The bishop paced, with impatient steps, the soft-carpeted 
floor of his private audience chamber. Something unusual had 
evidently occurred to disturb him ; for as often as he passed 
and repassed the window, he would look anxiously into the court- 
yard below, as though watching for the arrival of Some one. 

“ What a vexatious piece of business this is ! ” at length he 
exclaimed. “I’m really afraid those blood-hounds will track 
him here before Bernaldi gets him safely ofif. How provoking 
that, just because he served us once (and he was well paid for 
it, too), he must needs call upon us to save his neck from the 
gallows ! If I was sure he would keep mum till he did swing, 
de’il a bit I ’d do for him, I know. But it ’s just the way 
with these fellows ! — let them once get any hold on you, and 
there ’s no end to their demands.” 

“ Come in » ” cried he, in answer to a gentle knock at the 
door, and the object of his soliloquy presented himself. 

“Ah, Manning, how are you, this morning?” said he, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


267 


extending his hand. Are you rested from your wild-goose 
chase ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! but that was a good one, though.” 

“ I must own that I feel considerably used up,” replied 
the other, %ith a yawn. “ To tell the truth, I did n’t dare 
to sleep with but one eye at a time ; therefore, you will excuse 
me, most excellent father, if I stretch myself a while on this 
dainty lounge.” 

“ Certainly ! Make yourself at home, Mr. Manning ; you 
need all the rest you can get, as you have quite a little jour- 
ney before you yet.” 

“ The deuce I have ! But how am I to get there without 
being seen ? ” 

“ Father Adolpho, with his shaven beard and pate, accom- 
panying his holy brother on missions of mercy, need not fear 
to meet the ofl&cers of justice face to faqe. Little will they 
suspect him to be their prison-bird ; ” and the bishop laughed 
heartily at his own craftiness. 

“ By J ove, I could n’t have fixed that up better myself ! ” 
cried Philip Manning, springing to his feet as he caught an 
inkling of their ingenious plan ; “ but I ’m deuced afraid 
they ’ll be at my heels before we are ready for them.” 

“ Here comes Bernaldi, at last ! ” burst from the bishop’s 
lips, with a sigh of relief ; “ now we are safe.” 

Philip Manning could scarcely believe in his own identity 
as he surveyed himself in the glass from head to foot, after 
leaving Bernaldi’s dexterous hands ; and loud and long did 
he laugh at the metamorphosed being before him. “ You say 
that fellow’s name ” — pointing to himself — “ is Father Adol- 
pho. Well, it ’ll seem pretty curious ; but I guess I can man- 
age it. It ’s better, any how, than to have one’s neck tied up 


268 


ANNA CLAYTON* 


too tignt! Where are we bound to, though? I haven’t 
asked that question yet.” 

“ Father Bernaldi will accompany you to a brotherhood in 
a retired spot, where we hope you will be cautiou* as to your 
future conduct. Your entrance there will bring you under 
solemn obligations to obey, perfectly and implicitly, every 
command of the church, through its chosen head ; and any 
violation of such a pledge would be visited by its severest 
penalties.” 

“ Most holy father, I thank thee for thy leniency and kind- 
ness to the poor convict ! ” exclaimed Manning, with solemn 
mockery, falling on his knees before the bishop. 

“We know how to treat om friends^" replied the bishop, 
significantly ; “ but rise up now, and hasten away, lest some 
untoward event should yet place you in the hands of the law. 
Henceforth, let ‘ Father Adolpho’ forget that such a being as 
Philip Manning existed. Farewell ! ” 

“ I would speak with you a moment,” said Bernaldi, return- 
ing to the bishop’s presence, while the pseudo-monk awaited 
him in the hall. “ This troublesome affair may detain me 
some time from home — perhaps a month.” 

“Well, well,” interrupted the bishop; “if you succeed in 
ridding us of him, it will be a good month’s work.” 

“ No doubt of that,” replied the other ; “ but what I wish 
to say is, that Marguerite seems failing rapidly; and, should 
she require the service of ^priest before I return ” 

“I 11 attend to that, I assure you! Her last confession 
might be rather dangerous for us.” 


“Just so,” said Bernaldi; “and now I go, with your 



ANNA CLAYTON. 


269 


“ Thank God, they ’re oflf, at last ! ” cried the bishop, as ho 
watched the speedy departure and retreating forms of the 
brother monks. “ Now I will go and attend to this thing 
immediately.” 

A visit from the bishop was, of late, something so unusual, 
that it caused Marguerite’s cheek to flush as he approached 
her bedside. 

“ Benedicite ! ” solemnly pronounced he, laying his hand 
upon her head : “ how is it with thee, my daughter ? ” 

“ Death is not far 05“,” replied she, feebly ; “ I feel his 
approach.” 

“ And where, my daughter, does your heart rest in this 
hour?” 

“ Upon the mother of my Jesus.” 

“ Nobly answered,” said he ; “ there let it rest, till by the 
intercession of the saints and the prayers of the holy church 
she receives you to her bosom, fit companion for saints and 
angels.” 

“ But my heart is vile, most holy father.” 

“ Then will it be as the heart of Mary. Let no doubts 
disturb your peace ; for will not the church take care of its 
own? and you, who have so faithfully served it, shall be borne 
in its sheltering arms to the very gates of bliss ! ” 

“ Your words, most holy father, inspire me with hope that 
even such as I may be saved.” 

“ Most assuredly, my daughter ; can you doubt it ? But, 
first, every thought and desii’e of your heart must be freely 
confessed, that it may be cleansed from all its impurity and 
23 * 


270 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


guilt. Whenever you desire and are fully prepared for 
this important act, I will come and receive your words.” 

“ I thank thee, holy father. I will lose no time in sending 
to thee, when my soul is ready.” 

“ Till then, farewell, my daughter. God be with thee ! ” 

Her own soul — or those dear children ! W'hich shall be 
saved? To the true Catholic there is no medium ground. 
The heart must be laid bare to its inquisitorial dissector, or 
the soul will be accursed forever. Marguerite believed this, 
for she knew no other way. What wonder, then, that long, 
torturing, agonizing struggles rent her feeble frame, ere she 
could save, at such a pricey objects precious even as they ! 
But out of that furnace she came forth purified as by fire. 
The secret of her heart shall go with her to her grave, — thus 
did she resolve. And who shall say that the recording angel, 
as he registered that solemn expiation, blotted not out with the 
penitent’s tears her dark page of guilt ! 

For many days after the bishop’s visit the poor invalid 
seemed rapidly declining ; yet she earnestly cautioned Balph 
to breathe not a word of it to his master ; “ For,” said she, 
“ the last great work of my life is yet unfinished, and till it be 
accomplished death itself will, I know, stay its hand.” 

Balph was in sad perplexity. That Marguerite should die 
without a priest he could not endure to think of; but he feared 
to disobey her wishes, lest it should somehow jeopardize the 
interests of his “ birdie.” Marguerite deemed it safer to keep 
him in ignorance of the details of her plan for rescuing the 
children; but he well understood that the little missives he so 
faithfully, though stealthily, conveyed back and forth, had 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


271 


some reference to that object, else he would not have so toiled 
whole nights to reach a distant town and return again before 
his absence could be known. Then, too, it was his hand that 
furnished her all needed materials for writing, though much 
wondering why she, day after, day, kept up such a continual 
scratching with her pen. Yet he blindly obeyed all her direc- 
tions, never doubting her assurance that in so doing he was 
but serving his ‘‘birdie.” At length, after one of his nocturnal 
rambles, Ralph brought her, one morning, a letter whose peru- 
sal, though it agitated, seemed to take a load from her spirit. 
The hectic deepened on her cheek, the eye burned with new 
lustre, as she pressed it to her bosom, exclaiming, “ Now am I 
ready ! Willingly, 0 blessed Mother of J esus, do I yield up 
my soul for this great boon ! ” Hush ! sees she not that cold 
shadow stealing silently over her threshold ? Nearer and 
nearer it approaches, till she feels its icy breath, and in terror 
cries, “ 0 Death, spare yet a little longer thy victim ! In 
mercy stay thy cold hand till another sun shall set, that my 
vow may be accomplished!” At that piercing cry, the 
shadow paused, turned aside,^nd, with uplifted arm, awaited 
the implored reprieve. 

“ Run quickly 1 ” said the dying woman to Ralph, who stood 
near; “bring Charlie to my bedside, for my moments are 
numbered, and I have much to say to him.” 

Ralph obeyed; and, through the, kind management of 
Father Ambrose, quickly returned with the trembling lad. 
Two years since, in that very room, Charlie had parted from 
Marguerite ; and now, for the first time, they met, — met in 
the presence of death. With sobs which he could not repress. 


272 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


Charlie kneeled by her bedside, and covered with kisses the 
white, emaciated hand. 

“ My poor boy,” said she, motioning him to rise, “ we have 
no time to lose ; a few hours hence and these lips will be 
closed ; but, 0, what a tale must they unfold to your innocent 
heart, ere death seals them forever! But, first, Charlie, 
promise that you will forgive me, — forgive, even though I 
have blighted your young life, — forgive me for the sake of 
the reparation I now seek to make ! ” 

“ 0, Margery ! dear Margery, don’t talk so! ” cried Charlie, 
with a choking voice. “ You and Ralph are all the friends 
Myrtie and I have had, and when you are gone what shall we 
do?” 

“ Say that you will forgive me, Charlie ! ” 

“ If there is anything but kindness to forgive, I do from 
my heart ! ” replied he. 

“ Now, Ralph,” continued she, « good and kind that you 
are, will you leave us a while ? What I have to eay must be 
heard by Charlie -alone.” 

“ Come nearer, dear child ! your sad, care-worn face tells 
me what you are suflfering. I hioia, Charlie, — and, O, I know 
too well ! — what our darling Myrtie must suffer if she remains 
within those dreadful walls ! Bo you remember your mother, 
Charlie ? ” 

“ I don’t remember how she looked,” he answered; “ but I 
have dreamed of her so much lately, I think I should know 
her. Why do you ask that ? ” 

“ Because I wish you to be like her. Listen now, Charlie, 
and I will tell you what I remember of her. When I first 
saw her, she was sitting with her babe in her arms, and you, 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


273 


her first-born, was by her side. She looked like an angel ; 
and I trembled in her presence, as I thought of the wicked 
errand upon which I had come. But I was hardened then ; 
and, besides, the wicked man whom I served was always 
near to urge me on to the dreadful deed. It was /, Charlie, 
who helped to steal you from your beautiful home and angel 
mother, and brought you over the cold waters, to spend your 
life in solitude and misery, — and your baby sister too. Think 
how it must have broken your mother’s heart to have her 
treasures thus torn from her ! Long and faithfully have you 
been sought for in every corner of the earth ; but no eye can 
ever penetrate these hidden places, and she knows not what 
has been the fate of her darlings. My breath fails me ; I 
wanted to tell you how your young, innocent lives have brought 
me to repentance; but, lest I should not have strength, I 
have written it all in this ” (handing him a package) ; “ and 
now, before it is too late, let me tell you that Marguerite, 
guilty and faithless as she has been, has done what she could 
to repair the great wrong. Yes, Charlie, I have given up 

my soul to restore you to your mother Water! quick! 

quick ! I faint ! ” said the sufferer, falling back on her pillow. 

Pale and affrighted, Charlie sprang to her assistance, 
entreating, passionately, that she would not leave him thus ; 
that, ere death claimed her, she would, in pity, return and 
save her lost children. 

Those accents of entreaty reached her heart ; and, though 
death’s relentless fingers were grasping their prey, she mur- 
mured, incoherently, through her thickening breath, “ This 
letter — take it — go to him — he will save you — God will 
bless you •— 1 know it — don’t tell Ralph — tell Myrtie — I 


274 


ANN4 CLAYTON. 


died for you — that package — for your mother — what do 
I see — Jesus will have mercy on me — O, glorious ! glori- 
ous ! ” 

Charlie was alone with the dead ! Affectionately but rev- 
erently closing those eyes which had ever beamed kindly on 
him, he bent over the still form, and paid his tearful tribute 
to her memory. Then, stilling his grief, in that silent pres- 
ence he opened Marguerite's legacy — his passport home ! 
The letter which she had given him with her dying breath 
caused his heart to leap wildly, as hope, strong and earnest, 
sprang up within him. Thus it ran : 

“ My dear Sister : You, whom we have for twenty years 
mourned as dead, can scarcely imagine the surprise your letter 
caused me. It came as from the grave, for you neither tell 
me where you are, nor whether I shall ever see you again. 
O, why will you keep yourself thus estranged ? Our hearts 
and arms are open to receive you. I shall never forgive those 
priests for enticing you into a convent ; and, could I find you 
now, I would snatch you from their grasp. To show you that 
I still love you, my sister, and not without the hope that it 
may win you back to me, I will undertake your mission, 
though, let me tell you, it is a dangerous one, requiring both 
ingenuity and despatch. My vessel will be ready to sail next 
Monday ; but, as it may require a longer time for your pro- 
teges to effect their escape, I will wait for them, holding 
myself in readiness to slip the cable at very short notice. 
Enclosed you will find minute directions how and where to 
find me. If the boy will follow these, he will meet with no 
difficulty ; but the girl I should think would need some one to 
help her along. You do not tell me who they are, or where 
bound, except to New York; and, perhaps, it is best I should 
not know ; but be assured they shall receive every attention 
from me, on my sister’s account. 

“ What more can I say to induce you to return to us ? 
Your uncouth but trusty messenger will absolutely give me 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


275 


no tidings of you ; and I can only trust that, on my return, 
your gratitude, if not affection, will bring you to me. Then 
only peace and happiness will be restored to your brother’s 
heart.” 

Again and again did Charlie read this precious letter, and 
the accompanying note of directions, till every word was in- 
delibly stamped in his memory. Then, opening the larger 
package Marguerite had designated for his mother, Jie found 
it contained his own and Myrtie’s story, from the moment 
they were torn from her till now. Enclosed with the rest 
was a beautifully embroidered purse, containing all the 
earthly possessions of her who had, year by year, hoarded 
them for this very purpose. Charlie wept at this last token 
of repentance, and, carefully enclosing it, together with the 
invaluable papers, in a small parcel, he wrote to Myrtie to 
guard them sacredly, and, by the memory of their blessed 
mother,- to effect, in some way, her escape to the place desig- 
nated in the note ; that the next Monday he would meet her 
there, if alive, did she but say she would go. Then, turning 
towards the face of the dead, to read her silent approval from 
those pallid lips, he breathed one long, last adieu, and left 
forever the cottage which had been his prison-house. 

“ How is she now? ” asked Ealph, who had been watching 
for him near the garden. 

“ She has gone to her rest, Ealph. Eury her there in the 
little spot where Myrtie and I used to play together, and 
keep the flowers blooming on her grave, Ealph ; for nobly has 
she died.” 

The big tears dropped from Ealph’s eyes as he answered. 


276 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ I will, Charlie ; but what ’ll now become of you and my 
birdie? ” 

“ Good, kind Ealph, what a friend have you been to us ! 
You shall never be forgotten. Here is a package, Ealph, as 
precious as your birdie’s life ; will you carry it to her, and 
be sure that no one sees it ? ” 

“ That I will,” said Ealph, “ this very night.” 

“ And be sure you bring me an answer, Ealph. I will bo 
at that little place in the wall where we met before.” 

“ Never fear to trust Ealph Eiley,” said the honest fellow, 
starting off at once, and drawing his coat-sleeve across his 
eyes ; “ he ’d gi ve up his old life now, if he could save his 
birdie.” 


CHAPTEB XXVIII, 


<» I am a •woman ! nay, a woman wronged . * 

Savagk, 

** Ten thousand curses fasten on ’em both ! 

Now will this woman, with a single glance. 

Undo what I ’ve been laboring all this while ! ” 

Addison. 

‘ I WILL be there ! ” Such -v^as Myrtie’s simple response 
to Charlie’s earnest appeal ; but how fraught with meaning 
were those little words, speaking courage and hope to his 
heart ! Yes, Myrtie would be there, he did not doubt, though 
by what means he could not divine ; and he, too, 'must he 
there, difficult as seemed any way of escape. How intensely 
was every thought bent on the accomplishment of his purpose ! 
Plan after plan was rejected, and still, as the time drew nigh, 
the poor boy was more distracted than ever. Father Am- 
brose, in his sympathy, attributed Charlie’s dejection to the 
loss of Marguerite, and strove by added kindness to soothe 
his heart. 

“ Charlie,” said he, one evening, “ I noticed at vespers, 
to-day, you looked more troubled than usual ; can I do any- 
thing to cheer you ? ” 

24 


278 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ You have already loaded me with kindness,” renlied 
Charlie, gratefully; “I know of no more that you can do, 
unless — unless — ” and he hesitated. 

“ What is it, my dear boy ? You can surely speak without 
reserve to me.” 

“ I should so like to visit Marguerite’s grave ! ” said Charlie ; 
“she was such a friend to me and Myrtie ! ” 

Father Ambrose thought a moment, and then, without a 
suspicion of the boy’s real design, said, in a low voice, 

“ I am to be on guard, to-night, and, if it will be any com- 
fort for you to visit her grave, you can do so without being 
noticed.” 

“ 0, I thank you a thousand times ! ” cried Charlie, as a 
bright gleam of hope flashed into his heart. “ You could not 
confer a greater kindness. ^ How long will it be safe for me 
to stay ? ” 

“ As long as you wish, my dear boy. I will let you in.” 

Charlie could scarce refrain from embracing him in his joy, 
as he thus saw the way open for his escape. But, wisely 
checking himself, he said, with a sad tone, “ Poor Margery ! 
she was all the friend Myrtie and I had for many years ! ” 

“ There,” thought Ambrose, “ I was right in conjecturing 
that her death caused such a change in him. I must try to 
favor him more.” Then charging Charlie not to hasten home 
till he was ready, he left him, on good thoughts intent. 

“ Perhaps it is wrong to deceive him so,” said Charlie to 
himself, when he was alone ; “ but, after all, it may make him 
less trouble than to know all about it. Farewell, good, kind 
Father Ambrose ! the prayers of the boy you have befriended 
will ever follow you! ” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


279 


To avoid suspicion, Charlie took nothing with him. But, 
arraying himself in the coarse, homely garb provided for 
him, he passed, with cautious steps, through the j)rivate 
entrance Ambrose had . left unfastened for him, and, turning 
in an opposite direction from the cottage, crept along in the 
shadow of the wall till he gained safely the highway. 0, 
how swiftly bounded his feet o’er the glad earth, as with a 
joyous heart he traced the way pointed out by Marguerite’s 
brother ! What though thirty long, weary miles lay before 
him. “ Mother, Myrtie, and home ! ” was the watchword that 
lured on his unfaltering steps through that lonely midnight 
walk. Press on, brave boy ! thy winged guide will bear thee 
safely along to the haven of thy hopes ! 

But Myrtie, — gentle, loving Myrtie, — how can she es- 
cape the sleepless vigilance which surrounds her? Not even 
to look on the cold, lifeless face of her childhood’s guardian, 
was she suffered to pass those prison-walls, so strictly did 
they guard their treasure. But an eye which bolts nor dun- 
geons can avert, though they heed it not, is now looking into 
that orphaned heart, with power to pity and save. Whence 
but from Him came the faith and hope which traced those 
simple lines of promise, “ I will be there”? 

When Balph gave Myrtie the package Charlie had in- 
trusted to him, she flew at once with it to Sister Agnes’ cell. 

“ A letter from Charlie ! ” exclaimed the overjoyed girl ; 
“ only think. Sister Agnes, a letter from Charlie ! — the first 
one he ever wrote me ; and Ralph is going to wait for me to 
answer it. How can I ever tell him how much I love him — 
dear, dear Charlie ! ” And she tore open the precious missive 
as she stood by the nun’s pallet, and together they devoured 


280 


ANKA CLAYTON. 


eacli word and line of that earnest, agonizing appeal. Myrtio 
rubbed her eyes to assure herself she was not dreaming, and 
Sister Agnes hid her face in her hands in thoughtful silence. 

“ Well, Myrtie,” said she, at length, “ what reply will you 
give your noble brother ? ” 

“ I know not. Sister Agnes, and yet I think I shall go.” 

The nun looked up with astonishment into the face of the 
young girl, radiant with hope, till, catching the inspiration, 
she exclaimed, “ Yes, Myrtie, I believe you will ; tell him 
80 .” 

Tearing a blank leaf from her prayer-book, Myrtie traced 
with a pencil those talismanic words, and gave them to Ralph, 
who, poor fellow, little knew the import of the message he was 
conveying. Charlie had cautioned her in his note not to re- 
veal the matter to her old frignd ; so she suffered him to depart 
without telling him that he would not see her again. But 
the streaming eye and trembling voice with which she bade 
him farewell (in her heart a last one) lingered many a day in 
Ralph’s memory, causing the answering tears to roll down his 
cheek as often as he thought of her emotion. 

When Myrtie again sought Sister Agnes, she found her with 
flushed cheek and burning brow, intensely absorbed in the 
story Marguerite had written for their mother. 0, what a 
strange revelation was there made of her own escape from a 
perjured and dishonorable marriage with the only one she had 
ever loved — and that one the father of her dear Myrtie ! How 
she longed to see the patient, suffering woman who had been 
Charles Duncan’s wife ! — the woman she had unconsciously 
wronged in loving him ! What an additional motive she had 
now to seek some way to restore Myrtie to her mother’s arms ! 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


281 


And Myrtie, too ! — how her cheeks tingled at the mention of 
her father’s perfidy, little suspecting, though, that the proud 
Emilie De Vere and Sister Agnes were one ! 

All night long the feeble nun tossed restlessly upon her 
hard pallet. Visions of the past, in all their dread reality, 
came floating by ; while the dim future, with its unknown 
terrors, stood like some gaunt spectre, ready to clutch its 
prey ! One moment she seemed swiftly gliding through the 
air, encircled by Myrtle’s arms, transformed into an angel’s ; 
and then from behind some dark cloud would peer forth a 
Satanic face, in which she could trace the lineaments of her 
perfidious lover, when instantly she began to descend lower, 
lower, lower, till, in her fright, she woke to find herself alone 
in her cheerless cell ! 

Morning’s gray light streamed through the aperture which 
served for a window ; but Sister Agnes was too feeble to rise. 
Carefully concealing Myrtle’s papers about her person, she 
summoned the portress, and requested the presence of the 
mother superior. Her spirit was stirred within her. Save 
Myrtie she must^ though to accomplish it deception and fraud 
were necessary. To deceive such characters as she had to 
deal with, for such a purpose, seemed to her both right and 
just. When, therefore, that worthy personage appeared, in 
no very pleasant mood. Sister Agnes accosted her in the most 
humble manner, begging her forgiveness for all the trouble 
she had occasioned her. 

“ What good does all your penitence do,” answered the 
mother, sharply, “ so long as you refuse to obey the first 
command of the church ? ” 

« That is just what I wished to see you about, this morning/’ 

24 ^ 

# 


282 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


said the nun. “ It has been revealed to me to-night that I 
ought no longer to withhold my substance from the church. I 
feel more than ever that my life is rapidly wasting away, and 
what I do must be done quickly. Therefore, if you please, 
holy mother, I will attend to making my will without delay.’ ^ 

The superior was so taken by surprise with this change 
in Sister Agnes, that she scarcely knew what to reply. It 
seemed highly important to secure the object lest she 
should lose the effect of this sudden excitement (as she deemed 
it) of the sick nun’s disordered imagination. But yet, in 
Father Bernaldi’s absence, how could she manage it? 

“ You do not reply,” continued Sister Agnes ; “ perhaps 
you deem me unworthy to make this offering.” 

“It is not that,” said the superior, in a gentle tone ; 
“your repentance, though it comes late, will doubtless be 
accepted. But he who shoJld have the direction of this affair 
is absent, and I scarcely know how to proceed.” 

“ You mean Father Bernaldi. How long will he be away?” 

“ He thought when he left it might be a month ; but he 
may come sooner.” 

Sister Agnes could scarce contain her joy at this intelli- 
gence ; it made her plan so much easier. “ Heaven knows,” 
cried she, anxiously, “ whether I shall be alive on his return. 
Is there no one to whom this matter can be intrusted ? ” 

“ Your zeal is commendable,” replied the mother, approv- 
ingly, “ and I will consult the bishop at once.” 

“ There is one,” continued Sister Agnes, “ if he is still liv- 
ing, who knows more definitely the extent of my possessions 
than I do. Indeed, I doubt if I could define them without 
his assistance.” 


« 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


283 


“ Who is that ? ” 

“ It is Mr. Stuart, the attorney who drew up my deeds. I 
think he now has them in his possession, and I should like 
to show him with what a hearty good-will I give them away.” 

“ I will think of this matter,” said the superior, rising to go, 
“ and, now that you have come to a right decision, I shall 
have you removed at once to more comfortable quarters, and 
a nurse provided for you. Who should you pr#fer ? ” 

“ You are too kind, most excellent mother ! I now see my 
great error in not sooner obeying you; but you shall lose 
nothing by it, I assure you. Perhaps you can best spare the 
little girl, and she will do for me at present.” 

“ I fear she is not old enough to take proper care of you,” 
interrupted the mother, kindly. 

“ Let her try a few days, and see.” 

“Well, if you prefer it, she shall.” 

Sister Agnes saw through this veil of hypocrisy, and though 
at another time she would have treated it with the contempt 
it deserved, she now determined to make use of it for Myrtie’s 
sake, — yea, even to become a deceiver herself. 

The superior was as good as her word, and in a few hours 
Sister Agnes found herself laid in a nice, clean bed, in one of 
their pleasantest rooms, with Myrtie at her side, as nurse. She, 
dear girl, was overjoyed at the change, though she did not 
understand why it was done ; and Sister Agnes thought it not 
best to inform her of her plans till she could be more sure 
of their success; but she often wiped away her tears, and, 
smoothing her bright ringlets, assured her she should be saved. 

The morning after these changes, Sister Agnes was not sur- 
prised at an early visit from the superior ; for she rightly 


284 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


conjectured that little else would claim the woman’s attention 
till the momentous question of her will was settled. 

“ How do you find yourself, this morning, my daughter ? ” 
said she, in her blandest tone, approaching the bedside. 

“ I have n’t rested so well for many a night, thanks to your 
nice, soft bed,” replied the nun j “ but still I feel that I am 
fast going.” 

“ And how your mind ? ” 

“ Clear and firm, especially since the holy resolution I 
made yesterday.” 

“ Then you do not waver ? ” 

“ By no means ; on the contrary, I was never more deter- 
mined to do right than now.” 

“ I am thankful to hear you express yourself so fully, for I 
came to talk with you on that subject. I have seen his holy 
reverence, the bishop, ana he has no objection to the course 
you proposed ; indeed, he thinks it a wise one, provided you 
are steadfast in your determination, and will not be influenced 
by any worldly opposition.” 

“ Do not fear for me, holy mother. The whole world could 
not move me, so strongly have I set my heart upon this deed 
of justice.” 

“Well spoken, my daughter! You will therefore be pre- 
pared to meet the person you named at eleven o’clock. He 
has been notified, and will be here then. I trust I do not 
need to remind you of the duties you owe us, in any commu- 
nication you may make to him.” 

“You can trust me,” replied Sister Agnes, striving to con- 
ceal the agitation she felt at the approaching interview. 

Eleven o’clock arrived, and the pale nun lay almost motion- 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


285 


less on her pillow. She was again to see a familiar face — 
one, too, who had been her friend, and, but for her own 
blind folly, might still have been hers. Would he know her ? 
CauUd he recognize, in her poor, emaciated form and shrunken 
face, the once bright and beautiful Emilie De Vere? Would 
he tell her of her father’s last days, and, perhaps, confirm 
Bernaldi’s dreadful report, that he died unreconciled to her ? 
Would he — but here her heart almost ceased to beat, as the 
sound of footsteps came nearer and nearer, and the mother su- 
perior entered her room, accompanied by the stranger. Yes 
it was he. Through her half-closed eyes she could see that 
he wore the same look, though age had furrowed his cheek 
and wrinkled his brow. O, how her heart longed to unburden 
itself to him ! But her first thoughts must be given to Myrtie ; 
and with this feeling she unclosed her eyes, as if just awaking 
from sleep. The mother softly moved to her side, and said, iu 
a low voice, “ He is here ; are you ready ? ” 

“ I am,” relied she, turning her face towards the attorney. 
He started as he met her look, and a painful expression 
crossed his face, as of some unpleasant remembrance ; but, 
unsuspicious of the truth, he advanced towards her and said, 

“ The lady superior tells me, ma’am, that you have a desire 
for my services in executing your will ; shall I wait upon you 
now ? ” 

“ If you please, sir,” was the feeble reply. Then, turning to 
the mother, she added, “Will it not be better for me to 
confer with the gentleman alone; the act will seem more 

free.” 

The superior winced a little at this proposal, but she could 


286 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


make no plausible objection, and she therefore reluctantly 
withdrew. 

“Now, sir,” said the nun, summoning all her strength, 
“ look at me ; have you ever seen me before ? ” 

“ I was half-persuaded, just now, that I had,” he replied ; 
“there is something familiar about your face, and yet I do 
* not know you.” 

“Well may you say that, for I do not know myself! Say, 
can jipu recognize in these wan features aught of one you 
knew as Emilie De Vere ? ” 

The attorney gazed, with a startled look, into her face, as 
she uttered that name, and, seizing her hand, exclaimed, 

“ Can it be possible ? Has the grave given up its dead, 
that I thus see you again, Emilie, daughter of my best 
friend? ” 

“ An unworthy daughter of the noblest of fathers ! ” added 
she. 

“ And yet he blamed you not, but died with wi^rm blessings 
on his lips for his misguided daughter.” 

“Was it indeed so?” cried she, eagerly. “0, what a 
weight of sorrow do you lift from my heart ! They told me 
that he cursed me ! ” 

“ Who told you so ? ” 

“ Father Bernaldi.” 

“ The wretch ! — When your father x^eaded so piteously to 
see you once more, that he might bless you, that priest said 
you had cast off all earthly attachments, and, the better to 
escape your own father’s importunity, had taken the veil 
in a distant convent. I have supposed for a long time that 
you were dead, as all efforts to learn your fate have been futile.’* 




ANNA CLAYTON. 


287 


Sister Agnes, overcome with emotion, sank back upon her 
pillow. Of what dark treachery had she been the victim ! 
While pining under a father’s supposed displeasure, and long- 
ing to throw herself at his feet for forgiveness, that father 
had been represented to her as inexorable in his determination 
not to see or forgive her ; and death had come between them 
to set his silent seal upon that falsehood. 

“ What were your intentions, Emilie in sending for me ? ” 
asked the attorney, breaking the painful silence. “ Anp you 
ready to bequeath your property to these people, who Have 
^thus deceived you ? ” 

“ Never, never ! ” warmly exclaimed the nun ; “ even though 
I had not now discovered their perfidy, I had other thoughts, 
though they must not know it, — ’t would be my death-war- 
rant, at once. 0, sir, your heart can never conceive what a 
living death I have suffered in this place ! ” 

“You must leave it immediately. Lady Emilie, and be 
restored to your possessions and your home.” 

“ No, sir, that can never be, and I do not now wish it. The 
sands of my life are nearly run, and with the few days that 
are left me I wish to make restitution where I have wronged, 
and save from an unholy grasp a lovely and innocent vic- 
tim.” 

In a subdued tone Sister Agnes then told him the sad tale 
of the orphans — of their parentage, of her near approach to 
crime in wedding Sir Charles, of her own interne desire to 
save them from the dreadful fate which awaited them, and to 
restore them to the arms of that bereaved mother. She also 
told him of the opportunity which now offered for their es- 
cape, and begged, with an earnestness which could not bo 


288 


ANNA CLAYTON/ 


resisted, that he would devise some plan to aid her in effect- 
ing it. His heart was moved, as indeed it could not otherwise 
be, and he promised to comply with her wishes as far as it 
was possible. 

“Now,” said he, “let us proceed to the business for which 
I was summoned, or suspicions may be aroused which will 
thwart our plans.” So saying, he unfolded the papers he had 
brought with him, and, spreading them about on the table, he 
rang a little bell, and requested the presence of the superior. 

“ I find,” said he, with a business-like air, as she came in, 

“ that I have not the necessary documents for making out this"|j| 
instrument. Had I known that the daughter of Lord De 
Vere wished my services, I could have brought her papers, 
which are in my possession ; but, as it is, I await your further 
orders as to the time for another interview.” 

The superior eyed him closely as he said this, but she 
could detect no emotion in his countenance, and she therefore 
replied, 

“ I leave that to you, sir. In Sister Agnes’ feeble condi- 
tion, it may, perhaps, be as well to have these matters all 
concluded speedily, that her mind may be perfectly at rest.” 

“ I agree with you entirely, madam, and, if you please, will 
wait upon you again to-morrow, at two o’clock.” 

“Very well, sir; we shall expect you.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 



** Press on ! There ’s no such word as fail . 

Press nobly on ! the goal is near ! 

The wisdom of the present hour 
Makes up for follies past and gone ; 

To weakness strength succeeds, and power 
From frailty springs. — Pr^ss on ! press cn ! ’* 


“ To-day, dear Myrtie,” said Sister Agnes, as her young 
nurse hovered around her couch, with pale and anxious brow, 
“ to-day he has promised to effect some means for your 
escape ; and, O, how rejoiced shall I be to know that you are 
far beyond pursuit ! ” 

“ It will be hard to leave you alone. Sister Agnes,” replied 
Myrtie. 

“ I do not doubt it, my dear girl,” said the nun, affection- 
ately ; “ but the little life there is left in me will soon be 
exhausted ; and how much more calmly shall I go to rest, 
knowing you are safe ! ” 

“Noble, generous heart!” murmured Myrtie j “Heaven 
will be your reward ! ” 

“I have written a few lines to your mother, Myrtie, 
and enclosed them in your package. They are for her eye 
alone.” 


290 


ANNA CLA YTON. 


“ Mother ! ” repeated the fair girl, — “ mother ! Can it 
be I shall ever know that name? ’T would be joy too 
great ! ” 

“Yes, Myrtie,” said the nun, with enthusiasm, “ you will 
know and love that dear being, — my heart tells me that you 
will. But, when her warm and loving smiles gladden your life, 
do not forget poor Sister Agnes ! ” 

“ Forget you — never ! ” cried Myrtie, with streaming 
eyes. “ If I am ever blest with a mother’s love, she shall 
know that to you we owe th^mutual gift ; your name shall be 
ever on our lips ! ” ^ 

“ Bear girl, how you have twined yourself about my heart 
since I first knew you 1» Keep near me to-day, Myrtie, for it 
is our last.’* 

The affectionate girl threw her arms about the nun’s neck, 
and, with sweet, winning words, sought to beguile the painful- 
ness of their parting. But, within, her heart was struggling 
with fear and uncertainty. What if all their plans should 
fail^ and her bright picture of home and its joys prove an illu- 
sion ! 0, how dark would seem the future, after such a 

foretaste ! 


Two o’clock came; and, punctual to his appointment, 
the attorney was ushered into the lady superior’s private 
parlor, accompanied by the lad who brought his bundle of 
papers. 

“ I wish to ask you a few questions,” said she, “ before 
permitting another interview with Sister Agnes.” 

“ I am most happy to confer with you, madam,” he replied, 
very calmly. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


291 


“ She has, of course, informed you who she is ? ” 

“ Yes ; that was necessary.” 

“ Did she give you any intimations that she would like to 
return again to the world ? ” 

“ On the contrary, madam, she averred that she remained 
here of her own free will and accord, and would upon no 
consideration leave you. These, I am happy to inform you, 
were her words.” 

“ And you would testify to them, if necessary ? ” 

“ Certainly, madam.” 

I “ I am thankful, I assure you, that she speaks thus of the 
house where she has spent so many happy years. I did not 
know but her declining health might affect her mind 
otherwise ; it would be a great trial to part with her now.” 

“ No doubt of it, madam ; she is a very lovely person.” 

“ So she is, sir ; and she seems so grateful for all we have 
done ! Has she told you how she means to dispose of her 
property ? ” 

“ She has intimated something of the kind to me ; and I 
think ym will have no cause to be displeased, madam.” 

“ 0, we have no wish to control her in this matter,” replied 
the superior, delighted at this insinuation. “ You see, sir, 
that she acts freely, and without even our knowledge.” 

“ I see, madam ; and allow me to say I highly approve of 
your course. Shall I now proceed to her room ? ” 

“ If you please, sir,” said the superior, leading the way. 

Myrtie was with Sister Agnes as they entered the room, 
and the imploring look with which she met his gaze reached 
the lawyer’s heart. In a stiff, formal manner he bade them 
« good-afternoon,” and then, turning to the superior he said, 


292 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Perhaps it will be as well, madam, for us to continue our 
interviews in a private manner ; — however, it is as you say.” 

“ I certainly have no objection,” she replied, promptly, 
reassured by his recent confidence ; and, motioning Myrtie to 
follow, she left the room. 

“ 0, tell me at once, sir ! ” cried the agitated nun. “ Is 
there any chance for her? — can you save her ? ” 

“I think so; at least, I hope so,” replied the lawyer. 

But it will be necessary to keep yourself very calm. Lady 
Emilie, to avoid suspicion. Almost everything depends on 
presence of mind, now.” M 

“ Let me but know there is hope for her, and I will be as 
impervious as marble,” was her impassioned answer. 

That is right,” said he ; “ and now I will explain to you 
my plan.” Carefully securing the door, he then opened the 
bundle, supposed to contain law papers and documents, and 
displayed to her astonished gaze a full suit of boy’s clothes, 
well worn. 

“ There,” said he, “ I judged these would fit Myrtie ; and, 
as my errand-boy is the same size, she can pass out with me 
in the evening, without suspicion. To carry away as large a 
bundle as I brought, you must roll up a suit of her clothes, 
for her use afterwards ; these you will conceal very carefully 
till this evening, when I shall make an excuse to visit you 
again, and Myrtie must be prepared. I shall pretend to have 
forgotten something, and shall send my boy for it. Myrtie 
can easily personate the boy, and when outside the gates a 
messenger awaits her, who will convey her at once to the 
appointed spot. Do you approve this plan. Lady Emilie ? ” 

“ Most heartily, my dear sir I And I think it can be 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


293 


accomplished without difficulty. 0, sir ! what do we not owe 
you for such noble efforts ! ” 

“ Do not speak of that, I pray you. To say nothing of the 
justice and mercy of the deed, Lord De Vere’s daughter is 
entitled to any and every service I can render. But we must 
to business, or those gray eyes will see something wrong ; 
and the attorney plied his pen as assiduously as though noth- 
ing unusual had occurred. 

« We proceed slowly, madam,” said he to the superior, as 
he was about to leave. “ Lady Emilie’s possessions are very 
l^jllarge, and, joined to those of the late Lord De Vere, make a 
princely fortune, which it requires no inconsiderable amount 
of time to detail in her will. I regret that other business 
occupies so much of my time just now.” 

“It is unfortunate,” replied she; “particularly as her 
health seems failing so rapidly.” 

“ If it would be agreeable to you,” suggested he, “ I might, 
perhaps, devote my evenings to her. What are the regula- 
tions of your house about admittance then ? ” 

“We have none that would interfere with such an arrange- 
ment, as I could easily give the girl directions to admit you.” 

“ Well, then, with your approval, I will commence this 
evening, and continue each successive one till the whole matter 
is settled.” 

She nodded her acquiescence, and he passed out, elated with 
this first success ; while within, locked in each other’s arms, 
trembling hearts awaited, in almost breathless silence, his 
promised return. 

Twilight deepened into evening as the attorney, accompanied 
by the lad, — with some trepidation, it must be confessed, — 
25 * 


294 


ANNA CLAYTON 


again, applied for admission to those inaccessible walls. A 
jolly, round-faced Irish girl, whom he had not seen before, 
opened the gate for him. 

“ Where is your mistress ? ” asked he. 

“ An’ shure, isn’t she in at vespers, an’ the porthress, too? 
an’ wa6 n’t I tould to let ye in, if ye be ’s the lawyer as comes 
to see the sick nun ? ” 

“ I am the one. What is your name, my good girl ? ” 

“ Johanna, sir, at your sarvice,” said the girl, with a low 
curtsey. 

“ Well, Joanna,” said he, slipping something into her hand, 
“ you seem to be a nice girl. How long will they be in at 
vespers ? ” 

“ About a half an hour longer, sir. Bedad, he ’s a rale 
jintleman, any how,” said she, glancing at her glittering palm, 
and then at his retreating form, “ that ’s thrue of him ! ” 

“ Now is the moment ! ” whispered he, thrusting his head 
into Sister Agnes’ room. “ Be quick, or it will be too late ! 
I will wait here for her.” 

A smothered sob and kiss, and, sooner than he thought it 
possible, Myrtie came out in her disguise, and, without a 
word, followed him down stairs. The poor girl scarcely 
breathed with the intensity of her emotion ; for on this mo- 
ment she felt that her destiny hung. 

“ My good Joanna,” said the attorney, “ I find I have 
left some of my papers at home, and am going to send this 
boy after them. You will let him in when he returns, won’t 
you ? ” 

“ Shure an’ I will, yer honor,” answered she, unbolting the 
gate, to let him pass through. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


295 


“ Now, mind, Dick,” said he, calling after the boy, “ get 
the ones I told you, in the left-hand drawer. That fellow is 
' so stupid ! ” 

“ He oughter be bright to serve yer honor,” said Joanna, 
pertly. 

“ You think so, do you? ” answered he, laughing. “ Well, 
there ’s something for your compliment.” And he put another 
coin into her hand, which completed her admiration of the 
“ jintleman.” 

All this had passed so quickly, he could scarcely realize 
1^ that the momentous deed was done ! — that Myrtie was now 
swiftly distancing pursuit, and that both he and Sister Agnes 
must prepare themselves for the denouement. As he returned 
to her room, the nun’s calm and immovable face and manner 
astonished him. That she could so control the hidden fires 
that he knew were burning within her breast, rejoiced as well 
as surprised him. 

“ This is well. Lady Emilie ! ” said he, approvingly ; “ re- 
tain but your present immobility, and all will be safe. She 
is already beyond their reach ! ” 

“ Thank God ! ” was all that burst from her heart, in reply. 

“ Little as wo both feel inclined for business,” continued 
he, “ we must seem to be engaged by it. I will now proceed 
to fill up these blanks, and then read them to you for correc- 
tion. Remember, everything depends upon your prudence 
and discretion when the crisis comes ! ” 

Very earnestly was the legal gentleman engaged in reading 
aloud to the nun descriptions of certain boundaries of land 
belonging to the De Vere estate, so that he heard not the 
superior’s step as she came in and seated herself. 


296 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


<‘TJ:ese, then, make the sum-total of your possessions,” 
exclaimed he, “ which we will now proceed to bequeath, as 

you directed, to Ah, madam, excuse me ! I was not 

aware of your presence. Am I encroaching on your stated 
hours for rest? Bless me! ” he added, looking at his watch, 
“ how time slips away when one is busy ! ” 

“ You was so buried in your papers, that I did not disturb 
you when I came in,” the superior answered, pleasantly. 
“ But, where is Myrtie ? I thought she was here, Agnes ! ” 

“ Do you mean the little girl I saw when I came in ? ” 
asked the attorney. 

** The same.” 

“ I took the liberty of asking her to retire while we trans- 
acted our business,” said he. 

“ She went in to vespers, I thought,” added Sister Agnes. 

The mother, with a troubled look, went out ; but soon re- 
turned with the startling intelligence that the girl was no- 
where to be found, and had not been seen by any of the sisters. 

“ What can have happened to her ? ” cried the nun, with 
assumed terror. “Do, my dear sir, lend your aid in finding 
her I ” 

“ Certainly I will,” replied he ; “ but do not alarm yourself 
needlessly ; doubtless the girl will soon be found.” 

“ TP is verT/ strange ! ” muttered the superior, leading the 
way to the chapel, which they searched in vain. She did not 
choose to initiate her companion into the dark mysteries and 
intricate windings of her great charnel-house ; so she politely 
excused his further attendance, and, with a look of real alarm, 
hastened to arouse the inmates for a more thorough search. 

“We are safe ! ” whispered he, as he bade Lady Emilie 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


297 


good*night. “ She has not the least suspicion. Only maintain 
yourself, and all will go right.” 

And all did go right ! Though the alarum’s shrill sound 
broke hafshly on the still morning air, calling for aid in 
trouble ; though its echo was heard in deep tones of warning 
from St. Augustine’s chime ; and though legions of vassals, in 
every form of disguise, searched with ceaseless diligence, and 
held in surveillance every avenue and port of the kingdom, 
innocence triumphed over oil ! 

No sooner was Myrtie, in her strange dress, outside the 
convent-gate, than a hand was laid gently on her shoulder, 
and a voice whispered in her ear, “ Follow me ! ” Trembling 
in every limb, she followed the light, quick step of her con- 
ductor, till they reached a deep wood, whei;e he silently placed 
her in the carriage awaiting them ; and, seating himself be- 
side h§r, he said, kindly, “ Keep up good courage — the worst 
is over!” 

The spirited steed, as though conscious of his burden, bore 
them swiftly over hill and dale, and before even Myrtle’s 
impatient heart expected they entered the suburbs of the 
city where dwelt the protector Marguerite had secured for the 
orphans. The cautious guide here stopped, and, leaving his 
horse at an obscure inn, they threaded their way carefully to 
the house designated in his directions. A long, weary hour 
were they in finding it, and not louder than Myrtle’s heart did 
the knocker resound as they reached the door. A window 
above them was in a few moments raised, in answer to their 


summons. 


298 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Does Captain Glynn live here ? ” asked the guide, in an 
under-tone. 

“Yes — it’s me. I’ll be right down,” said that worthy 
individual, half suspecting who they were; for, to tell the 
truth, he had thought of little else since he received Mar- 
gu^ite’s letter ; and every day his interest deepened to see 
the children who had so won his sister’s heart. 

In a few moments he opened his door to the new comers ; 
but Myrtle’s companion, giving her a bundle, said, 

“ I should much prefer to remain here while this young girl 
exchanges the garments she has on for her own, and then I 
will take them and return immediately.” 

“ Young girl ! ” responded the host, with surprise. “ Ah, 
yes, I understand, now — pretty well thought of, too. Come 
right in, my dear.’* 

Myrtie gazed earnestly into his pleasant face, while a single 
word hovered on her lips — “ Charlie ! ” 

“ Not here, yet,” said he, cheerfully; “ but you have come 
so safely, we ’ll hope the best for him.” 

Myrtie was in a new world now, with these kind-hearted 
people (for his wife had joined them). But all their entreaties 
could not prevail with her to eat or sleep till Charlie should 
share her happiness. Poor Charlie ! — where was he ? 

“ I tell you what, wife,” said the captain, as the gray light 
began to appear in the east, “ I guess I ’ll slip down to the 
* Orient ’ and have everything put in full rig. These birds ’ll 
be caged again, mighty quick, if we don’t get ’e» out of the 
way.” 

“ But what if the boy does not come ? ” tjueried fche. 


ANNA CLAYION. 


299 


“It’ll be bad business, that!” said he; “but somehow I 
think he will.” 

Buttoning up his fear -naught, the good sailor left the house, 
intent on his deed of mercy. He had proceeded but a few 
steps, when he noticed a boy at the corner of the street, look- 
ing anxiously around, as though uncertain what course to take. 

“ Where awa’ now, youngster ? ” said he, hailing him. 

“ I ’m only trying to find a house in this street,” replied 
the boy, shrinking into the shadow of a building. 

“ Well, there’s a fleet of ’em, you see,” laughingly added the 
other ; “ which ’ll you hail ? ” 

“ Do you know if one Captain Glynn lives in any of 
them ? ” asked the boy, taking courage from the man’s good- 
nature. 

“ Tack about, my lad ! Yonder ’s your harbor ; and, if your 
name’s Charlie, there ’s a jolly welcome for you, my hearty ! ” 
The captain grasped the boy’s hand warmly as he said this, 
and drew him towards his home. 

“ But, who are you ? ” asked the latter, wonderingly. 

Who am I ? Why, the very cruiser you ’re after, my 
lad. My name ’s Captain Bichard Glynn. Now, who are 
you ? ” he asked. But the merry twinkle of his eye told that 
he already suspected the truth. 

“ I am the boy dear Margery wrote you about. But Myr- 
fie — O, where is she ? ” exclaimed Charlie, as they ascended 
the steps. 

“ Let ’s go in and see,” said the other, taking a key from 
his pocket, with which he unlocked the door. 

Myrtie, exhausted with fatigue and excitement, had thrown 
herself upon the sofa ; and, in a half-dreamy state, she heard 


300 


AN:{A CLAYTON. 


the door open. Turning her head quickly, she sprang, with 
one bound, ^and was locked in her brother’s arms ! “ Charlie! ” 
“ Myrtie ! ” was all that each could utter. 

Again and again were the tears brushed from that manly, 
weather-beaten cheek, ere Captain Glynn could find voice to 
speak. 

“ Now, my hearties,” said he, “ we must lose no time, or 
those pirates ’ll be after you ! Give ’em some breakfast, wife, 
while I am putting up my traps, and in one hour we ’ll have 
plenty of sea-room.” 

How proudly dashed the “ Orient ” o’er the swelling wave, 
bearing freight more precious than Eastern gems ! How gently 
rocked the cradle of the deep, as old ocean sang the orphans’ 
lullaby ! How each shrill, raging wind hushed its voice, as 
on, still on, floated the charmed vessel to its destined port — 
“ Mothei^ AND Home ! ” 

“ Swift glides the wandering bark. 

Bearing beloved ones o’er the restless wave ; 

0 ! let thy soft eye mark 

Thei? course I Bo with them, Holiest, guide and save ! ” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


• “ A springing joy, 

A pleasure which no language can express. 

An ecstacy that mothers only feel. 

Plays round my heart, and brightens up my sorrow, 

Like gleams of sunshine in a lowering sky.’* 

“ I AM sorry to say it, my dear sir,” quoth the physician, 
ominously shaking his head, “ but nothing short of a miracle 
can save your wife ; and I am free to add, Mr. Graham, that 
but for you she would long ago have been in her grave.” 

Robert Graham leaned heavily on the mantel, and a deep 
sigh shook his whole frame. “ Then there is no hope ? ” 

“ None, that I can see,” returned the other; “ she has been 
growing more feeble every year, and I fear the crisis cannot 
be far off. ’T is a sad case, — sad ! sad ! ” and the kind- 
hearted doctor fell into a fit of musing, while Robert still 
leaned in deep revery. 

“ Let ’s see ! ” at length said the former ; “ it ’s some twelve 
or thirteen years since that terrible event, is n’t it ? ” 

“ Twelve years last May,” answered Robert, sadly. 

“ It ’s a great pity ihsit jitsiice cannot reach such knaves,” 

26 


802 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


continued the doctor ; “ my fingers have ached, many a time, 
to get hold of them.” 

“ They are hidden by an impenetrable wall which sets laws 
at defiance everywhere,” Kobert replied ; “ but, in this in- 
stance, we have every reason to believe they were aided by 
that poor, misguided Duncan.” 

“ Well, Ae met with a pretty summary punishment, any 
how ! ” 

“Yes, he has found o?ze tribunal that cannot be averted ; 
and so, at last, will those, his dark conspirators.” 

“ Well, I must confess,” said the doctor, “ that this very 
case has done more to make me a sceptic than anything else. 
Just look at your wife ! A better woman never breathed, and 
yet her happiness, her life even, is sacrificed to the damna- 
ble wickedness of such villains.. Now, if there is a God who 
watches over and takes care of his own, why does he suffer 
this ? Why permit such villany to go unpunished ? ” 

“ We have just noted the sad end of one of them,” replied 
Robert, “ and who knows what may yet befall the rest? Still, 
if in tAis world they prosper, we cannot doubt the terrible 
retribution which awaits them when the great Judge demands 
innocent blood at their hands.” 

“ Supposing it is so, why should he allow so much suffering 
Acre, when, as you believe, he has power to prevent it ? ” 

“ His reasons we know not here ; but, in the light of eter- 
nity, we shall see and admire the wisdom which has brought 
us, even through such dark ways, into his glorious presence.” 

“ And your wife feels thus ? ” 

“ Much more than I,” said Robert, warmly ; “ the spirit 
within her seems brightening; her faith strengthens and, with 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


803 


sweet trust and hope, she leans on Him who has bruised but 
to make her whole.” 

“ There must be something,” said the physician, thought- 
fully, “ for such faith to rest upon. Mrs. Graham has always 
been an enigma to me, and now more so than ever.” 

“ Simply, my dear sir, allow me to say, because you have 
not learned that cure for every ill — trust in God ! ” 

“ Trust in God ! ” 0, what need had Robert Graham of 
such faith ! There lay Anna, his earthly idol, sinking slowly, 
but surely, to her grave. And what to him will this world 
be when she is gone ? Trust ! 0, yes, he hath need of 

perfect trust, else will he sink in despair ! See him now, as 
on his knees he bends in agony, crying, “ Let but this cup 
pass from me ! ” What, save heavenly light, can pierce his 
darkness, and teach him this sweet submission — “Not my 
will, but thine be done ! ” 

And she, too, that sad, gentle being, whom only his love 
has detained on earth — needs she not to draw from deep foun- 
tains of hope ? Pale she lies, but, as she sees the dark, grim 
messenger gradually approaching with deadly aim, what angel 
of mercy, so like the one she has cherished for years, averts the 
dreaded shaft, and, turning its radiant face to hers, murmurs, 
“ Mother and Home ! ” She sees her own image reflected in 
that face, and, stretching forth her arms, she cries, “ My 
daughter — my own ! ” But, alas ! fond mother, ’t is only a 
dream — a vision of thy sickly imagination ; thou must awake 
to find thy treasures still gone ! Such a dream had Anna ; 
and, as she told it with glowing breath to her husband, he 
wept that thus it could not be. 


804 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


It was a warm, still night in August. Not a sound was 
heard ; even the chirp of the cricket ceased, and the whippoor- 
will’s song was lulled to rest. Asheville was buried in mid- 
night silence. Scarce was this silence broken by the light 
steps of those who now approached the quiet village, as hand 
in hand they came along its public road, with eager eyes and 
burning hearts scanning each dwelling. At length, before 
the old stone mansion they stood — the elder, _a boy, gazing 
with deepest interest at its porch, its yard, and, finally, at the 
great elm, whose overhanging branches covered its roof. 

“ There, Myrtie ! ” whispered he, “ I remember that tree ; 
this must be the place ; but, 0, I dare not knock ! Perhaps 
she is dead ! ” 

The girl threw herself upon his neck. “ O, don’t say so, 
Charlie ! ’t would break our hearts — dear, blessed mother ! ” 

How sweetly echoed that word in her heart, as, with timid, 
trembling steps, they went up to the porch-door, and gently 
raised the knocker ! But Morpheus reigned within, and 
louder must be the summons to open his gates. Again and 
again, each knock vibrating fearfully on their hearts, did they 
try to arouse the inmates. 

“0, dear ! ” said Charlie, “ I ’m afraid nobody lives here ! 
What shall we do ? ” 

“ Try once more,” said Myrtie, tremblingly ; and again the 
knocker was timidly raised, while their hearts almost ceased 
to beat. 

“ What was that noise? ” said Mrs. Clayton, half waking 
from her slumbers. 

“ I did n’t hear anything,” replied her husband. 

“ I am quite sure I did \ and it seems to me I have heard 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


305 


it two or three times in my sleep,” said she, rising and going 
to the window. 

“ Bless me ! here is somebody at the door ! — who can it 
be?” 

This thoroughly aroused her husband, and he quickly sprang 
to his feet and raised the window. 

“ What ’s wanting ? ” he asked. 

A whispered consultation at the door, and then “Does 
Anna Clayton live here ? ” inquired a voice below. 

“ Anna Clayton ! who do you mean ? ” said he, with aston- 
ishment. 

“ Her name used to be Anna Clayton,” answered the voice,' 
more boldly ; “ but afterwards ’t was Anna Duncan.” 

“ Wife ! wife ! what does this — what can this mean ? ” 
cried the old man, completely bewildered ; “ here is a boy and 
girl inquiring for Anna. 0, my God ! if it should be ! ” but 
the sentence was left unfinished, for, with his first words, his 
wife had flown down stairs. In a moment he was at her side 
and as the light which he held in his hand fell upon the face 
of the young girl, he exclaimed, 

“ My child ! the image of my Anna ! ” 

What joyful greetings, then, for the young wanderers! 
What open hearts to receive them ! but “ mother ” is first 
upon their lips. 

Then comes the story of her sufferings — of the noble devo- 
tion of him who is worthy to be called their father, and of 
their lovely home near by. Charlie listened with a swelling 
heart ; but Myrtie was so full of joy, she could hear naught, 
save that, when morning dawned, she should be in her mother’s 


arms. 


26 * 


306 


ANNA CLAYTON 


Then Charlie told of their escape from their hated prisons ; 
of dear, kind Capt. Glynn, who brought them safely over to 
New York, and placed them in a vessel bound for Boston ; 
and how from there they travelled through the day, and at 
night found shelter in some comfortable farm-house, till now 
they had reached their home. Wonders ceased not when the 
morning sun dawned on the little group, so earnestly engaged. 
But who shall now bear to that mother these tidings of great 
joy ? May not its excess break the frail tenure which binds 
her spirit to earth ? 

Bobert Graham had just risen from his sleepless couch. 
All night had those dread words sounded in his ear, — “ no 
hope — no hope!”’ No hope for her, the suffering victim of 
popish barbarity ; and no hope for him whose all of earth 
must soon lie beneath the sod ! The morning sun threw its 
first beams upon his kneeling form, as in secret anguish he 
pleaded for strength in his hour of trial and darkness. Does 
not that bright ray speak life and hope into his soul ? He 
looks up, he sees the omen and accepts it, and with a lighter 
heart does he go forth to duty. 

Scarcely had he descended to the parlor, when a light knock 
at the outer door brought him thither. 

“ My master and mistress want you to come right over 
there,” hastily said the messenger. 

'‘Why, Maria, what has happened? Is anybody sick or 
hurt ? ” 

“No sir, but they told me not to say anything — only to 
ask you to come over quick.” 

‘ ’T is very strange,” said he, as he prepared to obey the 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


307 


summons, at once. “ What mn they want of me at this early 
hour ? ” 

Then, looking in upon the pale face of his wife, as she still 
slept, he quietly slipped out of the house, and with rapid steps 
entered the old mansion. But at its threshold he stopped, 
gazing with amazement on the tableau before him. For, 
upon either end of the sofa sat Squire Clayton and his wife, 
while between them, affectionately clasping a hand of each, 
were two, whose faces, though he had never seen them, were 
as some familiar dream. 

“ Tell me,” cried he, agitatedly, “what does all this mean? 
Whose are these ? ” 

“ Can you not suspect, Eobert?” answered the Squire, with 
a beaming face, as he pointed significantly to Myrtie, whose 
sweet smile reflected so strongly her mother’s. 

“ It is her smile ! — But — no — it cannot be ! — Tell me — 
O, tell me, I pray you ! ” and he stretched forth his hands, in 
his earnestness. 

Charlie rose, and, with inimitable sweetness, taking one out- 
stretched hand, and placing Myrtie’s within the other, said, 
“We are your children, father ! ” 

0, with what a strong, loving embrace were they gathered 
to that noble heart, as, with more than paternal tenderness, he 
uttered, “ My son — my daughter ! ” 

“ Take us to our mother ! ” said Myrtie, still clasping his 
hand. 

“ Grod only knows how I shall break this to her ! ” replied 
Mr. Graham. “But, come, my children, — and you too, 
father and mother ; ’t is meet we should all gather beneath 
one roof to-day.” 


308 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


T were difficult to tell whose limbs tottered most as they 
entered Robert Graham’s dwelling — those aged ones’, who had 
been brought to see the day for which they had so long 
prayed ; the little ocean-tossed mariners’, now at last safely 
moored, though still tremblingly murmuring “mother and 
home ; ” or the fond husband’s, with every thought, in this 
great moment, centering on the fearful joy thus brought to 
one dearer than all. 

“ Has my wife yet waked, Susan ? ” asked he. 

“Yes — sir — no — sir,” answered the housekeeper, ab- 
stractedly, gazing from one to the other with a strange look. 

“ 0, I forgot, Susan ! ” added Mr. Graham, with a smile. 
“ You must share our joy; these are the little ones you used 
to tend.” 

“ I knew it — I knew it ! ” exclaimed she, hugging them 
alternately. “ ’T is the same face little Charlie used to wear, 
— and the baby too ! How they ’ve grown ! O, my mistress 
will die for joy ! ” and the faithful girl was almost beside 
herself with delight. 

Burdened with the joyful mission, Robert Graham sought 
his wife’s apartment. How strangely bright everything 
seemed to him now ! Even Anna’s face glowed with new 
light as she welcomed him with a cheerful smile. “ What, 
up and dressed so soon!” said he. “You are certainly 
stronger, Anna.” 

“ I have rarely enjoyed such sleep as I did last night,” she 
replied ; “ and this, together with those bitters the doctor left 
me, have given me rkther an unnatural strength, I think.” 

“ I am thankful, dearest ; for you need it all ” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 309 

She looked up with surprise into his face. “ What is it, 
Robert ? ” said she. “ What do you mean ? ” 

“I mean,” replied he, unable to control his agitation, 
“that joy such as she dreams not of awaits my beloved 
wife! ” 

“ Surely, Robert,” and she grasped his arm, convulsively, 
“you do not mean — you have not heard — ” 

“No, dearest, I have heard nothing, but I have seen 
them ! — seen your darling children, Anna ! — and they are 
now uTider this roof, waiting for a mother’s blessing ! ” 

“ Where — O, where ! ” cried she, wildly rushing to the 
door ; but Robert touched the bell, and in an instant two 
light forms sprang into their mother’s arms ! 

Is there aught of earth in a scene like this ? — Rather, are 
not angels encircling the little group, breathing heaven’s sweet 
incense upon them, and setting its glorious seal on this sacred 
reunion of hearts ? 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


“Joy never feasts so high 
As when the first course is of misery.” 

Joy ! joy ! all now is joy in that blest home ! Even the 
good doctor doubts no longer a kind overruling Providence, 
and the Quaker refers triumphantly to his spirit’s prophecy. 
Put what are doubts and prophecies now to that happy house- 
hold, whose hearts are filled with gladness ! The ebbing tide 
of life flows back again to the mother’s breast, as she pillows 
her head in the loving arms of her noble boy, or bends her 
ear to catch the sweet tones of Myrtle’s winning voice as she 
fondly murmurs “ Mother ! ” 

As the first tumult of joy subsides, and eager questions draw 
forth the children’s tale, what dark revelations are made of a 
plot so infamous that their hearts quake with horror ! Mar- 
guerite’s testimony was read with glistening eyes and forgiv- 
ing tenderness, while over Lady Emilie’s sad fate they wept 
tears of heartfelt sympathy. Kalph’s name became at once 
a household word where Myrtle dwelt, and his kindness and 
unbounded devotion an unceasing theme of grateful remem- 
brance. Father Ambrose, too, was not forgotten — an im- 
portant though unwitting aid in Charlie’s escape. The 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


311 


humane attorney, the faithful guide, and last, though not 
least, the kind-hearted Captain Glynn, eacn received their 
meed of praise from overflowing hearts. 

Anna read in secret the lines traced to her by the hapless 
nun, and no eye save his who shared her every thought was 
permitted to see them. Thus breathed that noble spirit to 
its gentle sister : 

“ I have wronged you deeply, sweet, suffering mother of my 
darling Myrtie ! but till now I knew it not. Heaven in 
mercy spared me the guilt of receiving thojL perjured vows, 
and saved you from dishonor. For the sake of her who has 
so sweetly beguiled two years of my lonely lot, and who bears 
away with her all of heart I have left, you" will, I know, for- 
give the wrong. I shall never see your fac^i on earth ; but 
will not the dear girl who binds my soul to yours unite us 
forever in perfect ^ove ? 

“ Let us deal gently with the dead ! His errors, though 
great, are not for us to expose. Rather le\/ the cold earth 
shroud them from our hearts that we, too, may find forgive- 
ness at last. You will soon hear from me again ; and when 
you read my last testimony of love for your matchless child, 
will you not breathe a prayer for the soul of her who has 
gone — ah, whither ? ” 

“ O, Popery ! ” exclaimed Robert, as he ceased reading, 
“ where will thy machinations end? No victims are too noble 
or exalted for thy ruthless hand ! ” 

“ Poor Lady Emilie ! ” said Anna ; “ she must have endured 
terrible sufferings.” 

“No doubt; but could they have been greater than yours, 
Anna ? ” 

“ Perhaps not,” and Anna shuddered ; “ out I have been 
surrounded with sympathy and love, while in tne cold, solitary 
walls of her cell what alleviation could there Oe ? ” 


312 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ One comfort she must have now, though, since she has 
rescued our child from her dreadful fate.” 

“ I shall never, wcuer forget her ! ” fervently uttered the 
happy mother. 


The village bell pealed forth joyous notes as from house 
to house the tidings quickly spread that the lost children 
had returned. Friends and neighbors thronged, with eager 
sympathy, to clasp their hands, and hear the wonderful 
ftory. 

Not a heart was unmoved at the recital; deep-swelling 
indignation burned in every breast that such an atrocious 
crime had been perpetrated in their midst, and left them no 
power for redress. Even Bridget conceded to Mrs. Lindsey 
that there “might be some bad praasts, though Father 
O’Brady warn’t the likes of ’em, shure.” 

But at night, when this day of glad greetings was over 
where could happier hearts be found than those gathered in 
the no longer desolate home ? The blissful smile resting on 
Anna’s cheek told of joy that had long been a stranger there ; 
and her husband’s soul spoke through the beaming eye with 
which he gazed on his restored treasure — restored by scarcely 
less than a miracle ! Bessie rejoiced as truly in their happi- 
ness as she wept in their grief ; and the whole-souled Quaker 
craved no greater earthly good. The venerable father, too, 
was there, relieved at last from the dread consequences of his 
mistaken ambition. But who had hearts so light, spirits so 
free and joyous, as the unprisoned captives ? “ Mother and 

Home ” was to them no longer a beautiful vision, as they 
revelled in the bright, sweet reality of their dreams. Do not 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


313 


such moments well-nigh efface the past, as hope gilds with its 
own radiant beams a happy future? 

« Come, children,” said Squire Clayton, as the evening 
closed, « we must let our little travellers seek the rest they 
so much need. Can we separate without blessing the glorious 
Giver for this our deep, unutterable joy ? ” 

Then, as every knee bent responsive, his soul broke forth in 
strains of thanksgiving and praise, rapturous and heavenly. 
Charlie and Myrtie looked on in wonder. They knelt as did 
the rest ; but where was the crucifix, where the formula to 
which they were accustomed ? Myrtie gently took from her 
bosom the rosary and cross which she always wore, and com- 
menced her usual devotions ; but Charlie listened with awe to 
those deep spirit-breathings, and forgot all else in this first 
prayer that ever reached his ear. 

*• Dear mother,” said Myrtie, when they were alone, “ I 
did n’t see any of you pray to-night.” 

“ Did n’t see us pray, darling — what do you mean ? ” 
“Why, where was your rosary, mother? ” 

A tear dimmed Anna’s eye as she gently replied, “ I fear 
my daughter has been taught to regard only the form of 
prayer. We do not believe in such worship as you have been 
accustomed to, Myrtie.” 

“ I noticed grandfather did n’t pray to the Holy Virgin, as 
we do, but it seemed strange to me. — Surely you do, 
mother ? ” 

“ God forbid that I should ever pollute my lips with such 
blasphemy, Myrtie ! ” 

“ Why, mother, you frighten me ! Who do you pray to ? ” 
“ To that God who alone sustained me when bereaved of 
27 


314 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


you, my darling, and who is infinitely precious to every child 
of sorrow and want.” 

Myrtie looked with surprise and admiration at her mother’s 
beautiful face, lighted up with holy fervor. 

“ And don’t you say mass, mother? ” 

“ No ! ” 

“Nor matins, nor vespers ? ” 

“No, my dear child ; we abjure all these worse than senst^ 
less forms, and cling with simple, earnest faith to the cross of 
him who died to save our souls.” 

“ Who was that, mother ? ” 

“Jesus, our only Saviour. Can it be that my children 
have yet to learn that precious name?” and the mother 
bowed her head and wept. 

“ Forgive me, dear mother ! ” said Myrtie, throwing her 
arms about her neck ; “ I did not mean to cause you such 
tears. I am sure whatever ym believe must be right; only 
it seems so strange to me.” 

And strange was it, both to Charlie and Myrtie, to witness 
such simple, unobtrusive piety, so strikingly contrasted with 
the noisy, unmeaning ceremonies of the church in which they 
had been nurtured. But gradually a purer light shone upon 
their souls, and ere long they too knelt at the same altar and 
worshipped the Cod of their mother. 


It cannot be supposed that an event of so great importance, 
and so nearly concerning the honor and integrity of the 
“ Mother Church,” would be long in reaching the ears of her 
watchful emissaries. In less than a week after the return of 
Sir Charles Duncan’s children, all the gossiping rumor of the 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


315 


neighborhood was faithfully transcribed, and despatched, with 
all possible speed, to the “ Very Rev. Bishop Percy.” While 
this important message is quickly traversing its watery path, 
the inmates of the chateau are becoming more and more per- 
plexed at the unaccountable disappearance of their young 
victims. The most severe scrutiny of every person connected 
with the convent could elicit no information concerning 
Myrtie. 

The gates had been kept securely barred, as usual ; no one 
had passed through them except the lawyer and his errand- 
boy. He, of course, could know nothing of the matter, being 
at the time deeply engaged with Sister Agnes. How or when 
she could have escaped their vigilance, was an unfathomable 
mystery to the lady superior; and if, perchance, she got 
outside their walls, what unearthly power had she to evade so 
efifectually their swift-footed messengers, who left no spot 
unsearched through the land ? Ah ! Lady Mother, for once 
thy base, crafty wiles have been foiled by a power thou 
knowest not of — the sleepless guardian of innocency ! 

Father Ambrose, though suffering severe penalties for the 
indulgence which he was forced to admit he had granted to 
Charlie, secretly rejoiced in the boy’s escape. But Ralph, — 
who can describe the unselfish joy of his honest heart, when 
told that his birdie had flown, none knew where, and that 
Charlie had gone too ! What though he would no longer 
look upon the face he worshipped, or hear again the song of 
his lark, — was it not better thus than to see her young life 
pining away in cold solitude ? 

“ I feel drefful lonesome like,” said he to himself, one day, 
as he walked towards the deserted cottage, and seated himself 


316 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


on its well-remembered step. How changed was even that 
lonely spot ! The little voice whose music so charmed his 
soul had fled ; and she who alone could have sympathized in 
his loneliness lay beneath yonder mound in death’s still sleep ! 
The joyous notes of the birds seemed to mock him with their 
gladness. “ Any how,” continued he, brushing away the tears 
that would fall thick and fast, “I’m mighty glad she ’s got 
away from those ’tarnal old critters, over there. She ’s free 
now, and happy too ; but I reckon if she knowed how her old 
Ralph’s heart aches, she ’d a let him foller her. I don’ know, 
but it seems to me I can’t stan’ it much longer, no how. 
These old bones ’ll soon lay close to Margery’s, yonder, if I ’ve 
lost my birdie. Any how, I ’m glad she ’s gone ; ’cause now 
she ’ll have a mother to love her. I wonder if she thinks of 
her poor Ralph, who ’d die for her any minit ! ” 

Bide thy time, good, honest soul! thou ’It ere long see 
what a place thou hast in thy “ birdie’s ” heart. 

A grim and shadowless messenger had, despite their bolts 
and bars, entered the convent, and laid his icy Angers on 
the heart of a penitent sister. How that magic touch froze 
every stream of life, and left the soulless clay like sculptured 
marble ! Noble birth, disappointed hopes, and degraded 
misery, were all forgotten in that breathless slumber; and 
she who lay there so cold and still wore a peaceful smile, as 
though angels were chanting forth her last, best deed on 
earth ! 

The deep-toned convent bell tolled the knell of the departed 
sister ; friends gathered around her bier, and the once proud 
and haughty Lady Emilie was borne to her father’s halls. 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


317 


beneath the sable pall. O, must her requiem be tuned by 
the heartless wretches who have, drop by drop, distilled her 
life’s blood ! 

After the last sad rites had been performed, and Lady 
Emilie entombed beside her father, the attorney drew 
Bernaldi aside, and, placing a heavy package in his hand, 
said, 

“ I was requested by her whose obsequies we have just 
attended to give you the munificent sum of one hundred 
guineas, that masses may be said for the repose of her soul ; 
and I am further instructed by her to say that in three months 
from this day her will is to be opened and read in the pres- 
ence of you all.” 

The priest bowed low as he pressed the golden weight in 
his hands. “ Sister Agnes’ word has ever been my law,” 
whined he, “ since she first devoted her life to piety and 
good works.” 

The lawyer bit his lips, but said nothing. 

“ I well remember,” continued Bernaldi, “how trying it was 
to me to communicate to her noble father, the late Lord Be 
Vere, her determination to shut out all worldly thoughts and 
objects from her heart, and give herself up to be the bride of 
heaven. But her pleadings that I would bear the message 
were not to be resisted.” 

“ And that communication killed him,” laconically added 
Mr. Stuart. 

“ I know it grieved him to the soul,” said the priest ; 
“but Sister Agnes was inexorable, and so there was no 
remedy.” 

“ She must have had a very hard heart, then.” ^ 

27 * 


318 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ No, she had not ; but her mind was so filled with ecstatic 
enjoyment, she lived above the world, as though it were not 
worthy a thought. Hers was, indeed, a bright example,” — 
here Bernaldi’s emotion overcame him, and he pressed his 
snowy handkerchief to his eyes, with well-dissembled grief. 

The lawyer turned away with a contemptuous shrug of his 
shoulders, but the priest soon rejoined him, and said, in a low 
voice, “ About Lady Emilie’s will — why did she not wish it 
read for so long a time ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you, sir,” replied Mr. Stuart. “ I do not hold 
myself responsible for Lady Emilie’s actions, or her will either. 
I am merely her servant in this matter.” 

“ You have seen enough, though, to convince you that there 
has been no compulsion in her case ? ” 

“ Most certainly, my good sir father priest,” said the other, 
with a peculiar smile. “Lady Emilie has, I kriow, acted 
with a free and hearty good-will in the disposal of her 
immense fortune. But, ’twill be quite unexpected to these 
friends of hers, won’t it ? ” and he touched the priest’s arm 
significantly. 

This made certainty doubly sure in Bernaldi’s mind ; and 
he whispered, as he parted with him, “ You shall lose nothing 
by your job, I promise you.” 

The lawyer bowed, smilingly, and returned to his home to 
pen a letter “ to the guardian of Myrtilla Duncan, daughter 
of Sir Charles and Anna Duncan, of Asheville.” 

The contents of that letter seemed to give him peculiar 
satisfaction ; for every few moments he would drop his pen, 
and, rubbing his hands together, exclaim, “ Noble deed ! ” — 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


319 


‘‘just requital ! ” “ who could deserve it more ? ” — “ Lady 
Emilie, thou hadst a noble soul ! ” etc. 

“ Greats commotion there ’ll be when that will is read,” 
soliloquized he. “ It will be quite as well, I think, for me to 
improve the opportt aity to travel abroad ; and, as Lady 
Emilie’s generosity 11 enable me to do it, I think I shall.” 




CHAPTER XXXII. 


^ Here are a few of the unpleasantest words 
That ever blotted paper.” Shakspeabb. 

** ’T is modesty in sin to practise every 
Disguise to hide it from the world ; 

But creatures free from guilt affect the sun. 

And hate the dark, because it hides their innocence.’* 

Sir W. Datewakt. 

“ ’T IS passing strange,” said Bernaldi, glancing at the open 
letter he held in his hand, and which he had just read, “ ’tis 
passing strange how those children could have escaped from 
our hands ! Somebody outside must have helped them, that ’s 
certain.” 

“A very sage conclusion, truly,” replied Bishop Percy, 
ironically, “ when the poor simpletons never stepped beyond 
our bounds, and could not have known one road from another.” 

“ Well, whoever it was,” continued Bernaldi, “ he has man- 
aged to dodge us pretty well.” 

“ Have you any suspicions of the real villain ? ” asked the 
other. 

‘ No j I cannot say that I have. I should n’t be surprised, 


ANNA OLA YTON. 


321 


though, if that Robert Graham had kept his spies about us 
all the time.” 

“ They must have grown old in his service, then, before 
they accomplished anything ; thirteen years is a good 
while to watch. No — I suspect the trouble lies nearer home 
than that.” 

“ Who do you mean ? ” 

“I cannot help associating that wretch of a Marguerite with 
this matter. She appeared very strange before she died ; and 
the boy was with her the last day.” 

“ That should n’t have been allowed,” said Bemaldi, 
quickly. 

“ Nor was it, with my knowledge. Ralph managed to get 
him there.” 

“ Ralph must be looked after. I fear he knows more than 
he will confess. Put him to the torture, at once ! ” 

“ I really think it would do no good ; he is too simple to 
deceive us. I ’ve cross-questioned him so much, I should have 
detected any signs of guilt.” 

“ After all, our trouble is n’t so much Imo they got away, 
as what we shall do now they ’ve escaped us.” 

“True,” replied the bishop; “and I’m for securing the 
property, first of all.” 

“ How can that be done ? ” 

“ I confess I am a little puzzled, myself, to know precisely 
haw ; but, supposing a will were to be found, among Sir 
Charles Duncan’s papers, giving to us — I mean the church — 
the whole of his property, — what then?” 

“ Why — then — I suppose we could get it ; but it would 


322 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


be pretty difficult to try that game now, the old lady has been 
dead so long.” 

“ I don’t know about that ; we have got to make a most 
desperate effort, or we shall lose all.” 

“ Plaguy curses those young ones have been to us, ever 
since we had them ! I wish, now, we ’d just shut up their 
mouths, to begin with ! ” exclaimed Bernaldi, angrily. 

“ It would have been better, as it has turned out,” said the 
bishop ; “ but let us think of something more agreeable, now. 
My plan of a will may succeed yet. We may reckon pretty 
surely on Lady Emilie, from what you have said.” 

“ No doubt of her, now. The dead don’t change nor run 
away. And, besides, her attorney as good as told me it was 
all right. Pretty sum we ’ve got for masses, have n’t we ? ” 

“ Yes ; I suppose she did that to give us a foretaste of 
what ’s coming. We must get this Duncan affair arranged 
before her will comes out, for we may have a quarrel with her 
heirs.” 

“ When we get possession of those two immense estates,” 
said Bernaldi, greedily, “ we can afford to rest a while, and 
enjoy life.” 

“ Which we will do, my good Alphonso,” replied the 
bishop, slapping him on the shoulder. 


The day came, at last (as all days will), when the future 
possessor of Bavenswood and its princely revenues was to be 
made known to the world. Beyond the circle of expectants 
little was said or thought of it. Every one supposed it would 
fall, as a matter of course, to the only brother of the late 
Lord De Vere, who, for the last ten or twelve years, had held 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


323 


tne property in trust for Lady Emilie, should she ever appear 
to claim it. So quietly and discreetly had the attorney, Mr. 
Stuart, managed the whole affair, since his first interview with 
the sick nun at the convent, that neither her uncle nor other 
friends had the most remote idea of the disposition ^he had 
made of her fortune. When, therefore, each notified guest 
presented himself, at the appointed time, within the spacious 
drawing-rooms, he was received with a stare and shrug by the 
rest, as though their own expectations were thereby propor- 
tionably lessened. Still in they came. But what a motley 
group ! Here, an old decrepid servant, who had known Lady 
Emilie in childhood ; there, the faithful nurse who had tended 
her footsteps from infancy; near by, some distant relative, 
who had long been forgotten by all, save her whose own 
wretchedness quickened her remembrance of the unfortunate. 
Now, with the step and mien of a lordly possessor, comes the 
bishop in full canonicals, and by his side the smooth-tongued 
priest, with face wreathed in smiles, as he bows condescend- 
ingly to all around him. One and another follows, till the 
rooms are nearly filled, and Bernaldi begins to wonder whence 
and why they came. Then, as the notary makes his appear- 
ance, accompanied by Lady Emilie’s attorney and two or three 
witnesses, all thoughts are concentrated on the business before 
them. Carefully arranging the papers on the table, and 
placing a large unsealed package before the notary, Mr. 
Stuart, with evident embarrassment, turned to the expectant 
guests. 

“ I wish,” said he, “ to clear myself from every imputation 
of connivance in this matter. That I remonstrated with her 
whose will wo are about to hear on her extraordinary dis- 


324 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


posal of her vast possessions, you have her testimony. In 
this note, written but two days before her death, she says to 
me : 

“ ‘Your intentions, I have no doubt, are good, in trying, as 
you do, to dissuade me from my purpose. But my mind is 
settled immovably ; and I therefore beg your immediate atten- 
tion to the necessary forms, etc.’ 

“ You will see by this,” continued Mr. Stuart, “ that Lady 
Emilie acted freely and independently ; and, though to most 
of you the result will be unexpected, and perhaps offensive, 
you must, one and all, exonerate me from any responsibility 
in the matter. Will you do so?” asked he, pleasantly, 
turning his eye upon the bishop and Bernaldi. The latter 
instantly rose, and, looking round very smilingly, replied, 

“ I think T can answer for us all, my dear sir, that, what- 
ever may occur, you have proved yourself free from blame.” 

“ Do you all thus judge me ? ” again asked the lawyer. 
And, as every head bowed assent, the notary added, with a 
smile, 

“ This is rather an unusual proceeding, I think. Lawyers 
are never held responsible for their clients’ actions.” 

“ You will see my reasons, presently,” whispered Mr. Stuart, 
“ if you will proceed with your duties.” 

The notary then rose, and, midst breathless silence, broke 
the important seal. At the same moment the lawyer touched 
the bell-cord near him, and the summons was at once answered 
by the entrance of two persons, unknown to all but the bishop 
and priest. An involuntary exclamation of surprise and rage 
burst from their lips as the two new comers very quietly 
seated themselves. But the voice of the notary recalled 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


325 


their attention, as, with a clear, distinct enunciation, he read 
bequest after bequest to this, that and the other tried and 
faithful servant or friend, not one of whom was forgotten by 
the grateful daughter of Lord De V ere. Then to her uncle, 
the only surviving member of the family, she bequeathed her^ 
homestead — the mansion in which they were assembled, with 
all its dear, familiar associations. Next, her father’s counsel- 
lor and friend, as well as her own, — he who had brightened 
tho last few days of her life by his unwearied kindness and 
sympathy, — was affectionately remembered in the gift of ten 
thousand pounds. 

“ Now,” thought Bernaldi, “ comes our turn ! All these 
don’t amount to a third of her wealth.” 

“ All the rest and residue of my property,” continued the 
notary’s loud voice (here followed long and minute descrip- 
tions), “ I, Emilie De Vere, being of sound mind, do give and 
bequeath to Myrtilla, daughter of Sir Charles and Anna 
Duncan, and her heirs forever.” 

« I pronounce that will a forgery ! ” screamed Bernaldi, 
utterly unable to control his fury at this astounding hnale. 
“ And you, sir, are the perpetrator of it ! ” shaking his finger 
at the younger of the two strangers before mentioned. 

“ Calm yourself, my dear sir,” said the notary ; “ such lan- 
guage cannot be allowed here. This will is too well attested 
to be disputed.” 

“And ym, you villain!” continued Bernaldi, without 
heeding the remark, as he rushed up to the attorney, “ you 
knew it all, and was accessory to it. You shall feel my ven- 
geance for this ! ” 

“ Yes,” added the bishop, with a flashing eye, “ it was all 

28 


826 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


a contrived plot between them ! But they shall be thwarted, 
yet!” 

Friends ! ” said the elder stranger, “ thou hadst better be 
a little chary of thy charges. Dost remember a certain plot 
in which thou and one Marguerite were so nearly concerned? 
And who was ‘ thwarted ’ there ? ” 

“ Confound that devilish old fool ! ” whispered the bishop, 
drawing Bernaldi aside, “ he ’ll blab the whole thing right 
out here, if we provoke him ! Let ’s go home, and see what 
we can do 1 ” 

“ I am sorry to see thee leave us now,” said the stranger, 
as they prepared to go ; “ for my friend Robert, here, has yet 
a little business with thee. However, we will call at thy home.” 

“ Concentrated rage and bitterness are in those men’s 
souls,” said Mr. Stuart, after they had left. “ You and I 
must look out for ourselves, Mr. Graham.” 

“ I trust I shall not be long detained in their neighbor- 
hood,” replied the other. “ I find, though, since my arrival, 
more work than I expected; for Lady Duncan’s death is news 
to me.” 

“ Really, then, you have another property to secure for 
your little heiress.” 

“ Yes ; and, as guardian to the children, I bespeak your 
counsel and immediate attention to the matter.” 

“ And I accept the trust without hesitation ; for, do you 
know, I am getting deeply interested in your little wards. I 
feel half tempted to cross the water to see them.” 

“ Nothing would give us greater pleasure than to have you 
accompany us home ; and I can insure you a hearty welcome 
there.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


327 


“ I ’ll go,” said Mr. Stuart, warmly ; “ and, in the mean 
time, I will serve you with my best ability here.” 

Rumor’s thousand tongues quickly spread the news of 
Lady Emilie’s will far and near, greatly to the dismay of the 
discomfited bishop and priest ; for, now that the existence of 
Sir Charles Duncan’s children became known, conjecture was 
rife as to the next occupant of Beechgrove. Thus far, since 
Lady Duncan’s decease, it had remained deserted and tenant- 
less, and its immense income had been paid over to the treas- 
ury of the holy church by Sir Charles’ late attorney, who 
dared not question Bernaldi’s pretended claim. But now the 
time for action had come ; and deep indeed and well-played 
must be their game, to meet the open demands of truth and 
equity. Infuriated beyond the power of expression by their 
repeated defeats, Bernaldi and the bishop nerved themselves 
for a most desperate conflict over this last hope — the posses- 
sion of Beechgrove and its fortunes. But more even than 
this was at issue ; for, failing to substantiate their claims, 
would not character, reputation, everything be lost, and their 
long-lived villany brought to light ? 

The morning after Lady Emilie’s will had been made known*, 
as Mr. Markland, the late Sir Charles’ attorney, sat busily 
writing in his office, three gentlemen were ushered into his 
presence, for whose visit he was well prepared by a long night’s 
conference with Bernaldi. Advancing with great cordiality, 
he greeted Mr. Stuart, whom he knew, very warmly. 

“ Allow me,” said the latter, “ to introduce my friend«i 
Messrs. Lee and Graham, from America. We have given you 
an early call this morning,” continued he, “ that the business 


328 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


whicb detains them here may be concluded as speedily as 
possible.” 

“ And may I ask what connection I have with that busi- 
ness ? ” said Mr. Markland, blandly. 

“ Certainly sir ; we come to prove to you the right and 
title of certain heirs to the late Sir Charles Duncan’s property, 
of which we understand you have the charge.” 

“ I hold Sir Charles’ papers in my possession yet ; but are 
you aware that he left a will, Mr. Stuart ? ” 

“ A will ! Is it possible, Mr. Markland ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ; Sir Charles left a will to be executed after his 
mother’s decease.” 

“ And what is the tenor of that will, Mr. Markland ? ” 

“You can see for yourself, if you like,” replied the 
attorney, going to a small closet and taking therefrom a paper 
which he handed to Mr. Stuart. The latter examined it very 
closely, and a strange expression rested upon, his face as he 
returned it. 

“ Why has not this will been executed before now ? ” said 
he. 

“A pressure of business has prevented it,” replied the 
other ; “ but I am intending to settle it forthwith.” 

“You have, of course, in obedience to this instrument, 
handed over the proceeds to Father Bernaldi.” 

“ I have, except a sufficient sum for the maintenance of 
Lady Duncan.” 

“How much, in all, should you judge you have paid?” 

“Really, Mr. Stuart, I don’t know that I ought to 
answer all your questions; however, there is no harm in 
this, that I see. I have his receipt forfit'ty thousand pounds.” 


329 


ANNA CLAYTON. 

“ I will not press you further, Mr. Markland; but, as I am 
acting for the legal heirs of Sir Charles, you will concede to ^ 
me the right of an investigation of his affairs.” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Stuart ; no one can object to that.” 

“Very well; then I will appoint a meeting here, if you 
please, to-morrow, at this hour, and will trouble you to notify 
all interested persons to be present.” 

“ I will do so, though I see no reason for such a meeting.” 

“ What has that fellow got into his head now ? ” said Mr. 
Markland to himself, after they had left. “ I must go right 
over and see Father Bernaldi about it; there ’s something in 
the wind, I ’m afraid ; ” and more carefully than Mr. Stuart 
had done did he examine every word and line of the will. 

“ This certainly is all straight ; there can be no mistake here. 
Pshaw ! he can’t do anything about it.” 

28 * 


CHAPTER^XXXIII. 

. “ All your attempts 

Shall fall on me like brittle shafts on armor, 

That break themselves ; or like waves against a rock, 
That leave no sign of their ridiculous fury 
But foam and splinters. My innocence like these 
Shall stand triumphant ; and your malice servo 
But for a trumpet to proclaim my conquest. 

Nor shall you, though you do the worst fate can, 
Howe’er condemn, affright an honest man ! 


IIalph worked away in his garden that afternoon in silence 
and sadness. Years seemed to have passed over him in the 
last few months, bending still lower his ungainly form, and 
dragging more heavily his slow and awkward step. His heart 
was “ clean gone,” as he said, “ after his birdie, and he 
should n’t stan’ it much longer, he knew.” So abstracted was 
he, as his hands busily plied the spade, that he was not aware 
of the presence of another person till a hand was laid upon 
his arm, and a rough voice asked, “ Is this Kalph Riley, the 
gardener ? ” 

“ Yes, it ’s me,” said he ; “ but what do you want ? ” 

“ You are my prisoner, sir,” replied the other ; “ I am an 
officer of justice, and was sent to arrest you for stealing.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


331 


“ Stealin’ ! ” cried Ralph. “ I never stole nothin’ in all my 
life. Don’t — 0, don’t take me to prison ! ’’ 

“ You must come — there ’s no help for it ! ” said the offi- 
cer, as he led the poor frightened fellow away, and left a note 
for his master. 

“ Where are you goin’ to take me to ? ” asked Ralph, as 
he tremblingly obeyed the order to get into the carriage which 
was waiting for them. 

“ To the person who sent me,” said the other ; “ I don’t 
know any more about it.” 

Friendless, alone, and now a criminal, Ralph gave himself 
up to despair. What matter was it to him, he thought, what 
became of him ! But soon the carriage stopped, and the pris- 
oner wagi. at once conducted into a small, comfortable apart- 
ment, he knew not where. 

“ This an’t so bad, after all,” said he to himself, as he 
looked around. “ I thought they was goin’ to put me into a 
dungin.” 

Just at this moment the door opened, and a gentleman 
advanced with extended hand and cordial smile. “ Forgive 
me, Ralph,” said he, “ that I was obliged to play such a trick 
to get you here ; you were so shut in there, at the chateau, 
I could not come near you ; and Myrtie told me to find 
you, and ” 

“ What ! Myrtie, my darlin’, blessed birdie ! ” cried Ralph, 
eagerly ; “ where is she ? 0, tell me, sir, if you can ! ” 

“ She ’s safe and well,” said the gentleman, smiling at 
Ralph’s earnestness, “ and wants you to come to her in her 
own home.” 

“ 0, sir ! ” and Ralph fell on his knees, while the tears 


832 


ANITA CLAYTON. 


streamed down his cheeks, “ I ’d be willin’ to die the next 
minit, if I could only see her sweet face once more ! ” 

“ You sTiaU see her, Kalph ; not once only, but every day 
of your life, if you will go with me,” said Kobert Graham, 
wiping away the tears which would gather in his eyes. 

“ I ’d go to the eend o’ this world, and into the next, to find 
her, — the light o’ this old heart ! I han’t been myself a minit 
since she went away ; but I ’s mighty glad when she got away 
from them ugly faces, any how ! ” 

“ Ralph, you have been a good, kind, true-hearted friend to 
Myrtie ; and she loves you, as she ought to.” 

“ Bless her eyes, she ’s an angel an’ nothin’ else ! I knew 
the Blessed Virgin ’d help her through, any how! but how’d 
she git away ? an’ where ’s Charlie ? an’ how come you 
to know ’em ? ” 

So Robert told him how they escaped and got home ; and 
how he, their new father, had come over to get their property 
away from the wicked priests ; and how they had charged him 
not to return without Ralph ; and how he had managed to get 
him arrested, so that Bernaldi would n’t suspect anything ; and 
now he was going to take care of him till they could all go 
together to Myrtie, where he should always have a home with 
his birdie. 

Ralph laughed and cried all in one breath, as Mr. Graham 
concluded. “ 0 dear,” said he, “ I thought, little while ago, 
I was dyin’ o’ grief ; and now I can’t stan’ this no better ! 
I shall die, I ’m so happy, I tell ye ! ” 


Again the three unwelcome visitors presented themselves at 
Ml. Markland s office, at the time appointed the preceding 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


333 


day ; but, to their surprise, no one was present except Bernaldi, 
who deigned neither by look nor gesture to notice their en- 
trance. 

“ I had hoped,” said Mr. Stuart, “ to find a large number 
present this morning.” 

“ There is no necessity for it,” replied Mr. Markland. 

Father Bernaldi is here to represent the church to which Sir 
Charles Duncan has bequeathed his whole property, and I act 
as agent for the testator. What more is needed ? ” 

“ Still,” persisted Mr. Stuart, “ I object to proceeding with- 
out witnesses ; and, as you have none, I shall take the liberty 
to introduce a few myself.” Saying which, he left the room, 
and soon returned with a dozen or more gentlemen, most of 
them well known to the lawyer and priest. 

“ I protest against this whole proceeding,” exclaimed the 
latter, angrily. “ That upstart,” pointing to Mr. Graham, 
“ has the audacity, I suppose, to think he can break Sir 
Charles’ will. You ’ll find yourself in a bad place soon, sir, 
let me tell you ! ” 

“ Let us attend to business, without further parley,” said 
Mr. Stuart, addressing Mr. Markland ; and then in a concise 
manner he presented the claims of Sir Charles Duncan’s 
children as his legal heirs, and demanded an immediate set- 
tlement of his property upon them. 

“ But the will, Mr. Stuart ! you surely forget the wUl ! ” 
exclaimed the attorney, with astonishment. 

“ I do not forget the instrument purporting to be the will 
of Sir Charles Duncan,” replied Mr. Stuart, with terrible 
emphasis; “but here, in the presence of these witnesses, I 
pronounce that document a forgery ! ” 


334 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


“ Infamous liar ! ” cried Bernaldi, purpling with rage 
“ prove your words, if you can ! ” 

“ I intend to do so,” coolly returned Mr. Stuart, “ if Mr. 
Markland will put a few of these witnesses under oath.” 

“ I will do nothing of the kind,” said the attorney ; “ they 
could prove nothing ; this is all child’s play.” 

“Just as you please,” returned Mr. Stuart. “Your choice 
lies between doing it here, or in the public court-room, to 
which one of the gentlemen present has a summons for you 
both.” 

“ What would you have or do, Mr. Stuart ? ” asked the 
attorney, somewhat mollified by the aspect of things. 

“ I would have justice done to the innocent and perse- 
cuted ; ay and to the guilty, also,” replied he, turning to the 
priest. 

“ This is insufferable ! ” exclaimed Bernaldi, springing to 
his feet. “ I, for one, will no longer bear such insolence ! ” 

“ As I said before,” returned Mr. Stuart, “ you can choose 
whether you will meet this charge here, fairly, or have it re- 
ferred to a legal tribunal, where there will be no secrets.” 

Mr. Markland drew Bernaldi aside, and, after a few mo- 
ments’ consultation, proposed sending for Bishop Percy and a 
few others, to which Mr. Graham readily assented. 

How like the hushed breath which oft presages the coming 
whirlwind and storm was the ominous silence which reigned 
in that room as the messenger departed swiftly on his errand 1 
Even Bernaldi felt its oppression, as his eye glanced uneasily 
around, to detect, if possible, some indications of the ap- 
proaching struggle. But the face of Mr. Stuart was immov- 
ably calm ; and, though a shade of triumph rested upon 


ANNA CLAYTON 


S35 


Robert Graham’s brow, he completely baffled the penetrating 
glance bestowed upon him. The suspense was at length be- 
coming painful, when, greatly to the relief of all, steps were 
heard ascending the stairs, and in a moment, throwing wide 
open the door, his servant announced “ his most holy reverence 
the bishop.” Bowing and smiling most obsequiously, Mr. 
Markland advanced, and apologized in no measured terms for 
the necessity he felt of summoning one so exalted to his hum- 
ble abode. Drawing himself up, with, hauteur, the bishop replied, 

•‘Your reasons are doubtless satisfactory, Mr. Markland; I 
only regret that we must tolerate, even for a few moments, the 
presence of such persons ! ” and, as he spoke, he cast a wither- 
ing look of scorn and contempt upon Robert Graham and his 
friend Mr. Lee. Paying not the slightest heed to the re- 
mark, or the look which accompanied it, Mr. Stuart inquired 
if they were now in readiness to proceed. 

“ I believe so,” was Mr. Markland’s reply. 

“ Then,” said Mr. Stuart, “ I will now reiterate my asser- 
tion. That will I pronounce a forgery — a most infamous de- 
vice, to wrest from Sir Charles Duncan’s lawful heirs his 
immense property.” 

“ Are you aware of the risk you incur by that assertion, 
unless fully proved?” asked Mr. Markland, whose cheek 
paled at the task before him. 

“ Most assuredly I am,” replied Mr. Stuart, contemptuously ; 
“ but I come prepared to prove the charge.” 

“ Do it. It you can ! ” shouted the bishop, forgetting him- 
self in his anger ; “but remember, you shall answer for this 
hereafter ! ” 

“ I shall be ready to do so, sir,” quietly replied Mr. Stuart; 


336 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


and then, turning to Mr. Markland, he added, “ You will now 
oblige me by producing the instrument you call Sir Charles’ 
will.” 

Most reluctantly was this request complied with ; for those 
guilty, craven hearts quailed before the attorney’s determined 
glance. 

“ There,” said Mr. Markland, handing him the document, 
** you will find it difficult, I imagine, to detect a flaw in that 
will. It cost Sir Charles and myself many days’ labor to 
draw it up to his satisfaction, and you see it is well attested.” 

“ Where are the witnesses now ? ” abruptly inquired Mr. 
Stuart. 

“ Well, really, I don’t know ; but I suppose they could be 
found, if necessary,” replied Mr. Markland, with some con- 
fusion. 

“ It will not be necessary,” said Mr. Stuart, emphatically. 

I see,” continued he, “ that the manufacturers’ stamp upon 
this paper is that of Messrs. Levin & Co. As those gentle- 
men are present, will they oblige me by stepping forward.” 

Immediately two gentlemen, of prepossessing appearance, 
came towards the lawyers. 

“ My name is Levin,” said the eldest, “ and this is my 
partner, Mr. Rogers.” 

Mr. Markland bowed stiffly, and Mr. Stuart continued, 

“ The purpose for which I requested your presence here 
to-day, gentlemen, you will understand presently. First, 
however, Mr. Markland will please administer the* customary 
oath ; for I wish to show you that this is no ‘ child’s play.’ ” 

“ Mr. Stuart, this is carrying your folly altogether too far,” 
exclaimed the bishop, imperiously ; “ it cannot be allowed,” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


337 


“With all deference to you, sir,” replied the lawyer, “ I 
am employed by the guardian of Sir Charles Duncan’s heirs 
to investigate his affairs, and obtain for them their property.” 

“ Which cannot be done while that will exists,” returned 
the other. 

“ But I am prepared to prove that Sir Charles never made 
that will.” 

“A modest assertion, truly! ” said the bishop, sneeringly; 
“ pray, who, then, do you change with the forgery ? ” 

“ It were wise for you, sir,” significantly answered the law- 
yer, “ not to press that question too earnestly. My duty to 
my clients will be performed fearlessly, and, if any further 
impediments are offered here, we shall refer the case at once 
to a more public tribunal. Decide now ; — shall I proceed 
or not ? ” and he calmly awaited their answer. 

The bishop, priest and lawyer, conversed apart for a few 
moments, and then the latter replied, 

“We are indifferent to your proceedings, Mr. Stuart ; wo 
do not fear to meet you here or elsewhere ; but, if here, how 
can the question be satisfactorily settled ? ” 

“ By the decision of a majority of those present, excluding 
all personally interested,” answered Mr. Stuart. 

“ But how are we to know they are not already pledged to 
your interests ? ” Bernaldi asked. 

Mr. Stuart cast a pitiful glance at the priest, and then, 
turning to the company, he said, 

“ If there is one gentleman present who knows the object 
for which he has been summoned here, I pray you let it be 
known.” But they all averred that they came in at Mr. 
. 29 


838 


ANNA CLAYTON 


Stuart’s request, to witness some transaction, of what nature 
they knew not. 

Bernaldi gazed searchingly into each face in that large 
group, and was apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, for he 
said, “ Let us proceed, then, and end this foolish affair with- 
out delay. But your witnesses must be examined separ- 
ately.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” replied Mr. Stuart, motioning Mr. Kogers 
and another gentleman out of tke room. “ Now, Mr. Levin,” 
said he, as that gentleman was placed under oath, “ will you 
examine the paper upon which that will is written, and tell 
us if you manufactured it ? ” 

Mr. Levin examined it carefully, then held it up to the 
light a moment, and answered, without hesitation, “ We did, 
sir.” 

“ Is there no possibility of your being mistaken ? ” 

“ Not the slightest, sir ; for, to prevent that, we have a pri- 
vate mark of our own.” 

“ How long have you been in the business ? ” 

“ About thirty years.” 

“Have you always used the same stamp or private 
mark ? ” 

“ Our paper has always been stamped as you see this is,” 
he replied, pointing to a corner of the sheet, “but latterly we 
have adopted a more private mark, by which we can at once 
identify our own manufacture.” 

“ Latterly, did you say ? How long since you adopted it?” 

“ About three months, as you will see by the date which is 
attached to the mark ;” and he held it up so that each one 
could see. 


ANNA CLAYTON, 


339 


^ During this reply, Bernaldi had sprung to his feet, with 
dilated eyes and compressed lips ; for he, too, saw the evi- 
dence of his guilt unmistakably clear before their eyes. 

“ Now let us hear what our other witnesses may say,” said 
Mr. Stuart, without noticing the priest’s agitation. 

“ I shall question him myself! ” Mr. Markland exclaimed, 
angrily, as the partner of Mr. Levin appeared. • 

“ Do so,” replied Mr. Stuart. 

“ In the first place, then,” said the lawyer, “ I would ask 
the witness if there is such a material difference between one 
bit of paper and another, that he would dare to identify it, if 
the life of a fellow-being hung upon, his decision.” 

« I should not dare to identify it, sir, unless I had some 
peculiar reason.” 

“ And is there anything peculiar, in the paper of your own 
manufacture, by which you could distinguish it from any 
other ?” 

“ There is, sir, in the paper we have made within the last 
two or three months.” 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ A private mark, which we agreed upon, and which we 
have pressed into the paper, with the date of its adoption.” 

“Did this paper come from your manufactory?” asked 
Mr. Stuart, handing him the will. 

He looked through it, as his partner had done, and then said, 

“ It did, sir ; and here is the mark and date of which I spoke.” 

“ How long since that paper was made ? ” 

“ It must have been made within three months.” 

“ What need have we of further evidence ? ” cried Mr. 
Stuart, looking around. “ Sir Charles Duncan has been dead 


840 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


these twelve years ; and yet, on this sheet of paper, not three 
months old, is his will professed to have been written ! ” 

“ The will is a forgery ! ” resounded on all sides ; “ there 
can be no doubt of it.” 

“ Who, then, is the villain ? ” sternly demanded he of Mr. 
Markland. 

“ Indeed, Mr. Stuart, you need n’t ask me,” replied he, 
angrily ; “ all I know about it is, I drew up such a will for 
Sir Charles, and supposed this was the same one. It must be 
a copy of it.” 

“ Miserable subterfuge ! ” exclaimed Mr. Stuart. “ But I 
have neither time nor patience to waste on you. Make resti- 
tution this moment to those you have wronged, or I place you 
in the hands of the law.” 

All the dark, malignant passions which had been working 
fearfully in Bernaldi’s heart during this scene now burst forth 
uncontrollably; and he hurled the most bitter, deadly invec- 
tives upon Bobert Graham, Mr. Lee, and even the bishop 
himself. 

“He is a madman!” said the latter, contemptuously ; “and 
no wonder, when he has such evil spirits to contend with.” 

The frantic priest vainly endeavored to make his escape 
amidst the confusion. Two strong arms restrained him, 
while Mr. Stuart said, “ I have not yet done with you. Sir 
priest. You will just give me a check for fifty thousand 
pounds, with interest added, the sum Mr. Markland has paid 
you from Sir Charles’ estate ! ” 

“ You have got to prove Sir Charles’ marriage before you 
can get anything!” retorted the priest, exultingly ; “and 
that, you know, you can’t do.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


341 


“Not so fast!” cried Mr. Stuart. “I have the proof 
here, and you may just sign that check, or the Bow-street 
officers, who wait below, will take you in charge ! And you, 
Mr. Markland, will transfer to me at once all Sir Charles’ 
property, of whatever nature.” 

“ Well, friend,” said James Lee, who had remained a silent, 
though not an unmoved spectator of the whole scene, — and, 
as he spoke, he patted familiarly the bishop’s shoulder, — 
“ what thinkest thou now ? Dost thou not see the hand of 
the great Avenger in all this ? Are not the bitter tears of 
anguish thou hast wrung from a mother’s heart now drop- 
ping like molten lead into thine own ? Verily, friend, I envy 
thee not the vigils thou ’It keep this night ! ” 

“ Am I to be forever baffled thus ? ” cried Bernaldi, gnash- 
ing his teeth with rage, as he that night made a few hasty 
preparations for flight. “Yes!” whispered conscience, in a 
voice so clear he started with fright, “ so long as innocence 
and purity are your chosen victims, you have an invisible foe 
to meet, whose shield is truth; against which your barbed 
arrows rebound to your own breast ! ” 

29 * 


CHAPTEK XXXIV. 


“ W ere my whole life to come one heap of troubles. 

The pleasure of this moment would suffice. 

And sweeten all my griefs with its remembrance.” 

Lee’s “ Mithridates.** 

Gladly do we turn from scenes of guilt and retribution, to 
the cheerful group gathered on the deck of the “ Orient,” 
that white-winged messenger which, a few months since, so 
quickly sped on its mission of love, bearing the mother’s 
gems to her breast. Now, though freighted with golden 
treasures and joyous hearts, the proud waves stay not their 
angry dash and roar, as when childhood breathed its pure and 
holy calm along the watery path. 

Captain Glynn, who had been pacing with rapid strides the 
deck of the noble ship, his weather-beaten face glowing with 
pride and happiness, suddenly stopped before the group. 

“ Now, friends,” said he, “ my heart is so full I must make 
a short yarn of what I ’m going to say. Little did I think, 
when I promised Marguerite to take that poor boy and girl 
into my craft, what would be the end of it ! But, here I 
stand, the owner and master of as handsome a clipper as ever 
crossed the ocean , — the gift of those children I — no longer to 
be called the ‘ Orient,’ but, with your leave,” bowing to Mr 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


343 


Graham, and, giving a signal to the crew, “ there ’s the name 
of my craft.” Up rose the broad streamer, and, gracefully 
unfolding to the breeze, displayed, in gilded letters, “ Charlie 
AND Myrtie.” a shout of joy from the little group gave 
their welcome appreciation of the grateful tribute, as the silken 
pennant floated above them, its bright wings plumed for 
homeward flight ! 

Loud and long rose Ralph’s shout above all others, as 
he saw his “ birdie’s ” name shining so brightly above him. 
“ What ’ud his ruv’renee say now,” quoth he, “ ef he know’d 
old Ralph’s a-sailin’ under that flag, and he thinkin’ all the 
time I ’s in prison ! He ! he ! he ! ” chuckled he, as he groped 
his way down to tell the story to the sailors. 

“ Verily, friend Robert,” said the Quaker, wiping a tear 
from his eye, how hast thy life changed since thou and I 
first met — yea, and mine also ! ” 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Graham, and to you I feel that I 
owe much of my present happiness. Your kind words and 
counsel have strengthened me in many a dark hour, when my 
heart failed me,” 

“ Now all is bright about thee,” added the other, “ thou 
must guard well thy heart, lest it be satisfied with earthly 
good.” 

“ I will remember your caution,” said Robert, smiling, 
“ for I grant I am in some danger.” 

There are others, if I mistake not,” remarked Mr. Stuart, 
“ who have many of life’s changes to reflect upon. What think 
you, for instance, of Bernaldi, revelling, but a few months 
since, in the spoils of innocence, and the power to blight and 


344 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


crush whomsoever he chose — now forced to flee from an out- 
raged and exasperated community ? ” 

“He carries his base heart with him,’^ said Mr. Lee; 
“ from that ho cannot flee.” 

“ No,” replied Mr. Stuart ; “ and I fear his wicked designs 
may not always be frustrated, as in your case, Mr. Graham.” 

“ Doubtless ho will go about * seeking whom he may de- 
vour,* ” answered Robert, with a shudder ; “ but God grant 
that neither he nor any other J esuit may ever cross my path 
again ! ’* 

How eagerly did Ralph rise with each morning sun, and 
stretch forth his neck to catch, perchance, a glimpse of the 
land where his “ birdie ” dwelt ! To him the days wore 
slowly away. “ Seems to me,” said he, one morning, “ this 
*tarnal old hulk keeps a-goin’ right round one pint — nothin’ 
but water to-day, and nothin’ but water yesterday, and ever 
so many days afore that. I b’leve the whole world ’s turned 
to water ! ” But Ralph’s suspense was soon relieved. That 
very afternoon one of the crew, pointing to a long dark line 
on the horizon, asked him if he saw that. 

“ See what? ” said he; “ that snaky-lookin’ thing way off 
on top^o’ the water? ” 

“ Ho ! ho ! you lubber, don’t you know that ’s land ? ” 

Ralph looked at the sailor in amazement, rubbed his eyes, 
and then looked again in the direction he pointed ; but it 
required more faith than he possessed to connect that dark 
object with the land of his dreams. Yet still ho gazed, and 
gazed, till his eyes ached and his brain reeled; gradually 
tho dark lino seemed expanding and looming up in the dm- 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


345 


tanco, when the conviction suddenly flashed upon his mind 
that the sailor’s words were true. 

“ Hurra ! hurra ! ” screamed he, in a voice which brought 
every soul on deck; “there’s my blessed birdie’s land! 
Seems to me this old hulk ’ll never fetch there, though. O, 
dear ! dear ! I could a’most jump across, this minit ! ” 

But on, swiftly on, the buoyant vessel glided, notwithstand- 
ing Ralph’s fears, while every eye gazed intently on the still 
distant shores. 

“ By to-morrow,” said Robert Graham, as they retired to 
their berths that night, “ we shall have quite a distinct view 
of the land and, with a grateful heart, he laid him down to 
sleep and dream of homo. 

! But, all through that livelong night, with straining eyes, 
vainly endeavoring to peer through its darkness, sat the 
honest old gardener; sleep came not near his eyelids, for 
memory and hope were busily weaving their chains about his 
heart. Anxiously he watched for the first gray streak of 
dawn, and when its faint light revealed a boldly-defined shore, 
even nearer than he had dared to hope, his joy knew no 
bounds. Shufiiing along as fast as his clumsy feet would 
carry him, ho gave a very decided knock at Robert Graham’s 
state-room door. “ Mister Graham ! ” said he, “ Mister Gra- 
ham ! we ’re a’most to ’Mcriky ! ” Then seizing a great 
dinner-bell which lay on a table near him, ho rang its loud 
notes with an unsparing hand, causing the sleepers to spring 
from their berths with afiright. 

“ Verily, Ralph,” said the Quaker, coming on deck, “ thou 
art beside thyself, this morning. What aileth thco? ” 

“ 0, wo ’vc a’most got there, Mr. Leo. Seems to me I can’t 


346 


anna CLAYTON. 


Stan’ it, no way, till I see my birdie’s sweet face again ! ” and 
off he went to feast his eyes on the land which contained his 
treasure. 

“ The happiest home in all Asheville, save one,” said Mrs. 
Lindsey, smiling, as she entered Anna’s parlor, one afternoon, 
and found her seated lovingly with her children. 

“ No, Bessie,” replied Anna, “ I shall not admit even 
your exception ; mine is the happiest home in all the world ! ” 

“ And I ’m the happiest girl in the world,” cried Myrtie, 
throwing back her sunny curls, and dimpling her face with a 
bright smile. 

“ You are the most beautiful, at least,” thought Mrs. Lind- 
sey, as she kissed the sweet mouth and gazed into the deep- 
' blue eye of the fair girl. Myrtie was lovely ; but her 
winning simplicity was the charm which drew all hearts to 
her. 

“ I really believe I am the happiest of you all,” said 
Charlie, a noble, manly boy of fifteen ; “ but when father 
comes,” — and he looked roguishly at his mother, — “ we shall 
all have to yield the point to him.” 

Anna smiled, and, telling him to run down to the post-oflSco 
and see if there was any news from that father, she said to^ 
Bessie, “ It is not so very weak and foolish, after all, to pride 
myself on such a boy as that, — is it, Bessie ? ” 

“ Weak and foolish ! ” repeated Bessie, her eyes suffused 
with tears ; “ no, indeed, dear Anna ! you have in your children 
all a mother’s heart could wish ; if anything could repay 
your years of suffering, it would be the restoration of such 
treasures.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


847 


“ Here, mother ’ ” cried Charlie, bounding into the room 
with a joyful step, “ here ’s a letter from father, post-marked 
in Boston ; now you are glad, I know.” 

Anna quickly broke the seal, while Charlie and Myrtie 
impatiently awaited the news. 

“ Only think,” said their mother, as she concluded reading, 
“ they have arrived in Boston, and will be here nearly as soon 
as this letter — this very night, probably ! ” 

“ Has Balph come, too, mother ? ” 

“ Yes, my daughter, and you can hardly wish to see him 
more than I do.” 

“ 0, how glad, how glad I am ! ” cried Myrtie, clapping 
her hands for joy. “ Bear, good Balph ! he shall always live 
with me now ! ” 

• “ And, besides Balph,” said Mrs. Graham, “ there ’s Mr. ’ 
Stuart and his wife, and Captain Glynn and his wife, all your 
friends, my children — I might say, your deliverers ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Charlie, “ and all the friends we had, except 
Margery and Father Ambrose.” 

“ And Sister Agnes ! ” added Myrtie, warmly. 

“ Cherish them all with great love,” said their mother, “ for 
our present joy we owe to them. But go now, my boy, and 
gather in our home circle to greet the welcome visitors. 
You, dear Bessie, belong to us ; so you must remain and let 
your husband join you here.” 

“ 0, Anna, my dearly-cherished sister ! ” exclaimed Bes- 
sie, “ most sincerely do I rejoice with you that your grief is 
thus turned into gladness, and the dark cloud removed, as I 
trust, forever from your path ! ” 

The news of the expected arrival had quickly spread 


848 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


through the village ; and long before the travellers reached 
Robert Graham’s house, they were greeted with shouts of 
welcome along the road. Hand in hand stood Charlie and 
Myrtie at the gate, eagerly watching for the first glimpse 
of faces they had known only in sorrow. Near them the 
happy wife and mother, with parted lips and fiushed cheeks, 
waited to receive not only a loved husband, but those who 
had guarded her best treasures when lost to her. The group 
around the door, crowned by the white fiowing locks of the 
aged grandfather, watched, with joyful sympathy, for the 
expected guests. 

“ Here they come ! ” cried M3rrtie, as two carriages droye 
rapidly up to the house ; and, unheeding all else, she fiew to 
the extended arms of a rough being, who had no eyes save 
for her. • 

Dear, good Ralph ! ” exclaimed she, “ how glad I am to 
see you ! ” 

“There — ’tan’t no use — I can’t say nothin’!” said 
Ralph, choking with each word, as he hugged her closely to 
his breast. “Birdie darlin’— darlin’ birdie!” Then hold- 
ing out an arm to Charlie, he enclosed within that warm 
embrace all his world. Not an undimmed eye looked upon 
them, for all knew through what suffering that strange friend- 
ship had been nurtured, and what devotion had bound these 
young hearts to their childhood’s protector. 

“ Children,” at length said their mother, approaching 
them with streaming eyes, “let me, too, bless your old 
friend ; for even you cannot feel as I do how much we owe 
to him ! ” 

“ Come, birdie, let ’s go ’way sum’mers — I can’t stan’ this 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


849 


no longer ! ” cried Ralph, as Myrtle’s mother poured forth in 
warm terms her gratitude to him. 

“ Wait till Myrtie has greeted her other friends,” said Mrs. 
Graham, smiling kindly on him. “ You and she will not be 
parted again for many a year, I trust.” 

“ I ’d never ask for nothin’ more ’n to serve my birdie 
allers,” said he, wiping his eyes, and gazing after her fair 
form. 

She, glad and joyous as the birds, flitted from one to 
another, warming each heart with her sunny smiles ; while 
Charlie, in a more dignified though no less cordial manner, 
warmly welcomed the friends of his darker hours. Mr. 
Stuart no longer wondered at Lady Emilie’s enthusiastic gen- 
erosity, and Captain Glynn felt that henceforth his “ craft ” 
would be doubly dear to him, with its new colors. 

“ Come, wife,” said Mr. Graham, in the midst of their re- 
joicings, “ let us give our friends a seat under the great elm 
across the way. I ’ve got a little piece of news reserved for 
you, yet.” 

“ For ? ” asked she, looking up in surprise. 

** Yes, Anna, for you ; and, as it is something very agree- 
able, I choose to tell it in a pleasant spot. — There, Mr. Stuart, 
what do you think of this ? ” he added, as they grouped them- 
selves under the wide-spreading branches. 

** Delightful ! delightful ! ” exclaimed the lawyer. 

** But the news, Robert ! ” said his wife ; “ tell us the news, 
now ! ” 

I am not going to give you a lecture,” said he, laugh- 
ingly, as their voices were hushed, and all eyes turned with 
expectation to him, “ but I must tell you that our little Myr- 
80 


850 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


tie, here, is the richest heiress in all the state — I had almost 
said the country ! ” 

How ’s that? ” cried several voices at once. 

“ Mr. Stuart, will give you the particulars. I can only 
say that those dear children who were stolen beneath this 
very tree have been restored not only to their mother’s 
arms, but to their rightful possessions. And, though Charlie’s 
inheritance is princely. Myrtle’s has the addition of Lady 
^ Emilie’s fortune ! Thus, .as on this memorable spot began^ 
so Tnay here forever end^ The Mother’s Trial.” 


ANNA CLAYTON. 


THE FOLLOWING- ARE SOME OF THE OPINIONS OF THE PRESS 

The story, as a "whole, is most graphically and powerfully drawn 
and is one of the most affecting and instructive we have ever read. 
Yet, as the various scenes, almost tragical at times, draw to a conclu- 
sion, light falls upon the picture, and its painfully dark shading is 
relieved. Characters change places with startling rapidity, sad faces 
brighten, and Jesuitical eyes look double vengeance in the dismaj^ and 
confusion of their defeat. Throughout the work there is a vitality and 
strength, a freedom from all flippancy and trifling, a purity of senti- 
ment and a sober earnestness of jDurpose, which give it a power over 
the sympathies, and an intrinsic and permanent worth, far beyond any 
moral tale with which we are acquainted. — Barre Gazette. 

Its high literary character, and the peculiar features of the plot, un- 
folding scenes of “ real life,” and of affecting and even terrible interest, 
will impress every one who enters upon the story. There is enough 
of the beautiful, playful and triumphant, to relieve the dark shading 
of the picture ; and those who have read the entire work predict for it 
a popularity which few works of the kind have ever enjoyed. — Bos- 
ton Journal. 

We are led to expect a work of extraordinary interest, — decidedly 
the best popular tale of the season. We are impatient to see the end 
of the story, and shall give a more full notice of the work as soon as it 
is out. — Boston Bee. 

A work of uncommon power, and of exciting and absorbing interest. 
— Boston Telegraph. 

It is a novel founded on actual occurrences, though of a most remark- 
able character : and the scene is laid in one of our own New England 
Tillages. It develops the craft and the unscrupulous means to which 


352 


OPINIONS OP THE PRESS. 


Jesuitism sometimes resorts to accomplish darling objects ; and will bo 
likely to impress the reader very strongly against that “ Mystery of 
Iniquity,” which has so long been working in darkness in the world, 
and which still works wherever it can find opportunity. The moral 
tone of the work, judging from such of the proof-pages as we have 
seen, will satisfy the most scrupulous reader. — Boston Evening 
Traveller, 

A work of very high order. The story moves on with a force, direct- 
ness of aim, and dignified moral tone, which every sensible reader will 
admire. There is about it nothing flimsy or trifling, no foolish gossip, 
no senseless and silly talk, thrown in to make out a book. It is too 
earnest and business-like for such poor resorts. * * It is such a 
specimen of literary workmanship in the story line as it is refreshing 
to get hold of. — Saturday Evening Gazette. 

From a partial examination of the proof-sheets, we are prepared to 
expect something of extraordinary interest. It is written in a style of 
uncommon beauty and force, and the work, in its whole plot and execu- 
tion, promises to exceed anything of the kind with which we are 
acquainted. — Boston Evening Transcript. 

A well-conceived and finely- written tale, of high moral excellence, 
and useful tendency. The plot is exceedingly attractive, and the style 
of the author is pure and vigorous. — Boston Courier. 

Through the courtesy of the publisher we have been permitted to 
look at the proof sheets of Anna Clayton, and believe this work will 
have as large a sale as the most popular works of the day. It is written 
in a graphic, outspoken style ; the incidents are true to nature, not 
overdrawn, distorted, or feeble. It is not only highly intellectual, but 
a work of uncommon and absorbing interest. — Uncle Samuel. 

It is declared to be a book, not of fiction, but of facts, — things which 
have actually occurred, — brought together and arranged with skill in 
a narrative form. Our present acquaintance with the character and 
accomplishments of the writer leads us to anticipate, when we shall 
have read it, an entire concurrence with the strong recommendations 
©f the Boston papers. — JVew York Independent 


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Comprising a View of the Present State of the 
Nations of the World, their Manners, Customs, and 
Peculiarities, and their Political, Moral, Social, and 
Industrial Condition ; interspersed with Historical 
Sketches and Anecdotes. By William Pinnoch, au- 
thor of “The History of England, Greece, and 
Rome.^' $3.00. 

PICTORIAL HISTORY OF THE AVORLD, 

From the Earliest Ages to the Present Time : (three 
volumes in one) : Comprising, Part I. — Ancient 
History ; Part II. — History of the Middle Ages ; ^ 
Part III. — Modern History. By John Frost, LL. 
D. Price, $3.50. 

THRILLING ADVENTURES AMONG 
THE INDIANS: 

Comprising the most remarkable Personal Nar- 
ratives of Events in the early Indian Wars, as well 
as Incidents in the recent Hostilities in Mexico and 
Texas. By John Frost, LL. D. Price, $2.00. 

GREAT EVENTS IN MODERN HIS- 
TORY : 

Comprising the most Remarkable Discoveries, 
Conquests, Revolutions, Great Battles, and other 
Thrilling Incidents, chiefly in Europe and America, 
from the commencement of the Sixfbenth Century to ! 
the present time. By John Frost, LL. D. Price, 
$3.00. 

* * * Agents wanted in every part of the United States and 
British Provinces. Address 

L. P. CROWN & CO., 
Publishers, Comhill, Boston. 

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